


Orient

by VR_Trakowski



Category: Emerald City (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, I am not a doctor TM, Original Characters - Freeform, West stirring the pot, booting in the shrubbery, guesstimated healing times, if you like Glinda I suggest not reading this, semi-original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-30 01:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 40,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10150499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VR_Trakowski/pseuds/VR_Trakowski
Summary: Dorothy may be done with Oz, but Oz isn't finished with her...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-season fix-it fic, because what on _Earth_ were the writers smoking, with that last scene? I do realize that I am opening with an overused trope, but see above statement. Continuity, can we has it? 
> 
> The usual disclaimers apply, and spoilers through the entire season. 
> 
> Also, because most of these characters are terrible in some way: the opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of the author.

“I’ve come to take you home.”

Dorothy stared at the man standing so impossibly in the middle of a grassfield, and shook her head. “ _This_ is home. This is what I had to get back to--”

“We need you, Dorothy. Your _mother_ needs you.” His eyes were calm, no pleading, nothing, and Dorothy frowned.

“Wait a minute. How does Jane know about _you?_ I barely spoke with her, how’d she find you and-- _fuck,_ I _am_ dreaming--”

Abruptly it was Glinda standing there, malicious triumph on her narrow face. “You ran away,” she said, voice rich with contempt. “You left them all behind.”

Dorothy wanted to _smack_ her, wrap her up in her own skirts and hang her upside down like the last time, but when she clenched her hands the gauntlets wouldn’t come, and Glinda started to laugh--Toto was barking--

Dorothy opened her eyes. The blank whiteness of the hospital ceiling met her gaze, and she exhaled, willing her heart to slow down. Her temple ached dully, but that was better than the sharper pain of earlier.

She could tell without turning her head that it was morning, which was a relief. After three days, even in a private room, she was learning a new sympathy for the patients who screamed and threw things.

Sighing, she sat up and swung her feet off the bed. Her head pounded briefly, then subsided, and Dorothy stood up and padded into the tiny bathroom. _Minor bruising and abrasions, minor concussion. Why am I still here?_

Except she knew why. Being found unconscious in the ruins of Karen Chapman’s home two weeks after the tornado and her own disappearance would have been enough for an overnight stay. It was her loss of memory over those two weeks that was the reason she was still under observation.

_Amnesia, hah. It’s such a cliché._

But there was absolutely no way to explain what had happened to her--not without the threat of being moved to the long-term care ward, the one with the lockable doors.

Dorothy didn’t think that they’d keep her there indefinitely if she did talk about Oz, but she didn’t want to end up with everyone thinking she was crazy, either.

The woman in the mirror never looked good--it was the lighting in the hospital’s bathrooms, they bought the bulbs at a discount--but Dorothy thought cautiously that bed-head aside, she was improving. The bruise along her temple was a riot of colors and the stitches didn’t help, but nightmare notwithstanding she looked less...lost.

She washed her face and brushed her hair, then slowly pulled down the collar of the sweatshirt she’d worn to bed. There on her collarbone was the fading proof that it _wasn’t_ all her imagination.

 _And it’s not a bruise from debris, either._ She could distinctly remember Lucas’ mouth there, and it gave her insides a painful twist, because that made her remember his hand around her throat, and the way he looked silhouetted against the sky, blood trickling down the pole and into the dirt.

Dorothy shoved the memories away, _all_ of them, and glared at her reflection. “If they don’t let me out today I’m signing myself out AMA.”

But when Dr. Patterson examined her later that morning, he surprised Dorothy by ordering her discharge. “I still don’t like your memory loss,” he said, tucking his ophthalmoscope into his breast pocket. “But there’s no timeline for memory recovery, and otherwise you’re fine. Just take it easy for a week or two, and come right back in if you have dizziness or a bad headache, you know the drill.”

He gave her a smile, and Dorothy smiled back. Pete Patterson was about her uncle’s age and one of her favorite doctors at the hospital; he was always calm, and so gentle he should have been a pediatrician. “We miss you around here,” he added. “But take your time coming back to work. And I know you know where to find them, but these are the numbers for the crisis hotline.”

He handed Dorothy a card, his smile going sympathetic, and she accepted it without arguing. They’d all talked carefully around it, earlier, how her putative memory loss was probably linked to a traumatic event, and she had no way to reassure them. _Besides. Plenty of that **was** traumatic. _ “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”

Dr. Patterson nodded, and patted her shoulder. “Go ahead and call your aunt to come get you--by the time she gets here we should have your release papers signed.”

Hospital personnel did have some perks--Dorothy was able to cajole the orderly to just walk her and her aunt out rather than making her ride in a wheelchair. Stepping outside into the sunlight felt like release from prison, and Dorothy tipped her head up towards the endless sky and let the cool air wash her lungs clean.

Her aunt smiled. “Come on, dear, let’s get you home.”

* * *

 

A month later, the bruises and stitches were all gone, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had stopped treating her like she was made of glass, mostly. Dorothy went back to being a nurse, and tried to forget driving a knife into flesh, and the limp body of a little girl under her hands.

And she realized...nothing had really changed.

Kansas was home, yes. And home had grown too small years ago. Now that she knew Oz was out there, somewhere on the other side of a meteorological phenomenon, Kansas seemed drab, almost boring; Oz’s vivid landscapes and the unexpectedness of magic haunted Dorothy’s thoughts, even though she’d seen the latter do much more harm than good.

She could get no answers from Karen Chapman. The woman had bled out and died in her cellar, and had been buried before Dorothy had even returned. Of the unknown man dead in the mobile home, the police knew nothing.

_I wanted to be more. And I blew it._

The unpleasant thought tickled in the back of Dorothy’s brain as she went about her days, looking after patients and doing endless paperwork. The one advantage of her “amnesia” was that Sam wasn’t pestering her for another dinner date. He asked after her health every time he saw her, with the careful sympathy that made Dorothy want to scream, but at least she didn’t have to manufacture excuses. Because _I was only with you because you were the easiest thing_ wasn’t something she particularly wanted to explain.

And she couldn’t be sure that what she and Lucas had shared had been anything more than two desperate people thrown together and trying to survive; that too was a cliché.

Except, judging from the way her heart hurt every time she thought of Lucas, it _had_ been more.

 _Until he tried to kill you, anyway. Get your head on straight and don’t be that woman._ Lucas was gone; Roan was the man living in that body. If the body still lived at all.

Dorothy smiled at the intake nurse and collected the latest reports from the E.R. before heading back upstairs, letting the smile drop as she climbed the steps. That was the worst of it, really. She had no regrets about talking the Witch of the East through the steps to kill herself--the woman had been torturing them for information, for pity’s sake--and Glinda deserved whatever she got, in Dorothy’s opinion.

But Roan…

Suddenly tired, Dorothy sat down on the staircase. The echoes of her steps faded away, and she stared at the dead moth on top of the nearest emergency floodlight without really seeing it.

_I didn’t have to do that. But I did anyway._

He hadn’t fought her, that was the worst of it; he’d just clamped his hand to his side and lay panting as fury drove her to put him back where she’d found him. Conscience had prodded her far enough to wrap a crude bandage around his torso when she’d tied his arms down, but it hadn’t been enough.

She hadn’t actively murdered him, but Dorothy knew she was probably responsible for his death.

_Yeah, he tried to kill me. But I could have just walked away._

Part of her wanted to explain it to someone, even if they couldn’t give her absolution. To pour out not just her guilt, but her mourning, for Lucas, for Sylvie, for the mother of her long dreams. For Oz itself, so twisted and afraid.

She even missed Toto, and she’d never been a dog person.

Dorothy rubbed her temple and pushed to her feet. The tears wouldn’t come, and there wasn’t a shoulder to cry on anyway. _Just get on with it. You’re home; you’ll get settled eventually._

_Really._

* * *

 

Two days later, she was just finishing up with Mrs. Clifford when she was paged to the front desk. “You have a visitor,” Susan at reception informed her cheerfully, and pointed across the small lobby.

The woman perusing the informational posters was not someone Dorothy recognized; in a town as small as Lucas, you got to know all the faces, and as far as Dorothy knew there were no South Asian families anywhere in the neighborhood. She was a good three inches shorter than Dorothy and looked about twenty years older, and in her slacks and cardigan she was a perfectly ordinary figure; but when she turned and lifted her eyes, Dorothy felt the shock of power.

“I’m going to take a quick break,” she said to Susan. “Back in ten minutes.”

“Take your time,” Susan said, still cheerful. Dorothy nodded, and went over to the woman.

“Who are you?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

The woman smiled up at her, and held out a hand; in it was a card, printed with five dots in a rough circle.

Dorothy stared at it for a long, long moment, then looked up again. “Let’s take this outside.”

She had no idea how she would move the woman if she didn’t acquiesce, but a few seconds later they were stepping into the bright day, and off the sidewalk that led to the hospital’s front door. “All right, explain,” Dorothy demanded.

The woman’s smile widened. “I am Mother South,” she said. “And I’ve come to ask you to return to Oz.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently world-building is a thing for me. Who knew? Granted, the show didn’t give us much to hang a story on, so. *rolls up sleeves* *mixes plaster* 
> 
> _Digger_ exists, though I don’t know if your local library will have a copy. You can find it [here](http://diggercomic.com/), and I recommend it most highly.

_What?_

The mix of dread and odd euphoria that rose in Dorothy’s chest was dizzying, and she pushed it down ruthlessly. “The Witch of the South is dead,” she managed. “Everyone said so.”

“They were wrong,” the woman said quietly. She reached up and touched Dorothy’s cheek, and the light caress made Dorothy want to curl up in the woman’s lap despite the fact that she was an adult. She stepped half a pace backward.

Mother South dropped her hand without looking offended. “Why should I go back?” Dorothy asked, her throat tight. “Just about everybody I met tried to kill me. Or torture me. Or both!” She let out a humorless laugh.

“Because Oz needs you.” The words were such an echo of her nightmares that Dorothy shuddered. “My dear, clearly I need to explain. Is there somewhere where we won’t be disturbed?”

“I...I have to finish my shift.” Dorothy rubbed her temple. “I can meet you after. Maybe in the library, they’re open late today.”

Mother East nodded. “Tonight, then.”

She turned and walked away. Dorothy frowned after her; the witch, if she really was who she said she was, hadn’t asked for directions _or_ a time. _Guess we’ll find out tonight._

* * *

Dorothy managed to get through the rest of her work day with a very distracted mind, and only barely remembered to call her aunt to say she’d be home late. The library was a low structure built with tornadoes in mind, and when Dorothy slipped inside she could hear the rousing debate of the weekly book club meeting going on in one of the side rooms. Somehow the cheerful arguing gave her heart, and she pulled her hands from her scrub-top pockets and looked around, wondering just where a witch from Oz would end up in a Kansas library.

In the graphic novel section, apparently, thumbing through a volume of _Digger_. She set it down as Dorothy approached and patted the chair next to the one she was sitting in. “I’m glad you came, my dear.”

Once again, the gesture made Dorothy feel small and childlike, and oddly safe. She did her best to ignore it and sat down, hoping rudeness would give her a bit of distance. “I’m here. Explain.”

Mother East still didn’t seem to take offense. “Do you know who I am?” Her accent was different from Glinda’s; it reminded Dorothy of the Witch of the East’s, though it wasn’t like they’d had much of a conversation.

Dorothy shrugged. “Mother South. The mother of all the witches, apparently.” She squinted, thinking of all those girls. “Not literally, I hope.”

The witch chuckled. “No, I don’t birth them, but without my spells no witches can be born. The Wizard thought he’d killed me...but only a witch can kill a witch.”

“Or the Beast Forever?”

Mother South sobered. “Or the Beast Forever, yes. Which is part of why you’re important, Dorothy.”

“Why, did it come back finally?” Dorothy asked flippantly, faltering at Mother South’s nod.

“Our spells are all but useless against it, and it perches on Emerald City’s tallest spire and casts the shadow of its wings all around it. We could fight it, but we would fail. And die.”

“Yeah, I can see how you’d want to avoid that.” Dorothy slouched a little in her chair. “But I still don’t see what it has to do with me.”

Mother South leaned over and brushed the back of Dorothy’s hand with one finger. Gold and gems glimmered beneath her touch, then vanished again.

In all the time since she’d returned, Dorothy had not been able to make the gauntlets manifest. Now her hands clenched involuntarily. “Make them reappear and you can have them back.”

Mother South sighed. “It doesn’t work that way, and I think you know that.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Cardinal witches keep each other in check, which is why when I went into hiding the others became...skewed.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Dorothy muttered.

Mother South tilted her head. “If I could undo the harm they’ve done, I would,” she said softly. “But even witches cannot reverse time.”

Dorothy shrugged, and Mother South went on. “We were four. Now we are three, since the Wizard forbade the taking of apprentices. And while we could train up another to take East’s place, we have no _time_. What we _do_ have...should you consent...is you.”

“But I’m not a witch,” Dorothy said, the words spilling out. “I mean, yes, I have the gauntlets, but my family’s from _here_. I can’t be a witch.”

“My dear, of course you can.” Mother South turned one hand palm-up. “You were born within reach of my spells. And besides...did you think that your people were the first to travel between worlds?”

Dorothy opened her mouth, then closed it. The idea was stupidly obvious, now that it had been brought up.

“But you just said witches can’t win against the Beast Forever,” she said weakly. “So what do you need me for?”

“Balance. And power.” Mother South’s gaze caught Dorothy’s. “Together, the four cardinal witches can raise enough power to enable the prophesied savior to kill the Beast Forever.”

Dorothy raised her brows. “If you think I’m going to work with Glinda _or_ West then you’d better think of something else.”

Mother South smiled, and this time there was nothing soft about it. “They will behave themselves.”

“Seriously? Because, like I said, they both tried to kill me.”

“You killed their sister.”

Dorothy flinched and looked away. “She was--but--I--” She let out a long breath. “I know.”

She gulped. “I--I didn’t want to.” And it was true; she didn’t feel _guilty_ , but she still wished there’d been another way.

A touch on her shoulder made her look back, and there was no condemnation in Mother South’s face. “I know. Dear East was as unbalanced as the others, and had abandoned half her mandate. You were protecting yourself and your companion.”

 _Self-defense isn’t murder._ She’d known that all along, but hearing it confirmed by the witch helped.

“As for West and North, they’ll do as I tell them,” Mother South said. “I am their mother. _You_ , I am asking.”

Dorothy bit her lip. “I need to think about this,” she said, and Mother South nodded.

“Of course.” She picked up the book and resumed reading, and Dorothy sat back in her chair and tried to sort out her spinning thoughts.

_Okay. One: I’m a witch? For real?_

_Two: what does going back to Oz involve? What do we have to do to raise power? **What** savior? _

_Three: why the fuck am I even **considering** this? _

She regarded Mother South, who was turning pages serenely. The woman seemed benevolent, but having encountered the other three cardinal witches Dorothy wasn’t inclined to trust that. _So why shouldn’t I just walk away?_

“Doesn’t the Beast Forever show up every so often?” she asked abruptly. “I mean, you’ve survived it before, wouldn’t you survive it again?”

“Oz survives, yes,” Mother South said without looking up. “But the loss of life is devastating. Even now, people are dying.”

“That’s just playing dirty,” Dorothy grumbled, and Mother South’s lips curved up.

She shouldn’t. She _knew_ it. For all its wonder, Oz had hurt her repeatedly, and she had absolutely no desire to ever see Glinda or West again.

 _But Jane’s still there. And whether she’s my mother or not, she’ll have answers._ If she were still alive, if the storm or the Beast Forever hadn’t killed her…

Dorothy refused to think about Lucas, or Roan, or whatever. _He’s dead,_ she told herself firmly. _Unless someone found him like five minutes after I left, he bled to death on that pole._ She had to swallow against the pain and guilt of that; it hurt, as if his fingers were still pressed into her throat.

_And there’s Sylvie, too. The Beast Forever could hurt her, maybe kill her. She’s Glinda’s now, but she’s still a just a little kid._

_And maybe...maybe I really can be **more**. _

“All right,” she said, a little startled by the words coming out of her mouth. “But I have some conditions.”

“Of course,” Mother South repeated, laying down the book.

“Can you send me back afterwards? Because I won’t go unless you agree to send me back home again.”

“Yes.” Mother South’s gaze was steady. “If you will agree to give up your power to an apprentice of our choosing. As I said, the cardinal witches must be in balance.”

“No problem.” Dorothy folded her arms. “And I’m going to need you to keep Glinda away from me unless we’re doing this power thing.” She was pretty sure that Glinda could kick her ass if it came to an actual magic fight, but either way she didn’t want to find out, though the idea of messing up that haughty face did hold a lot of appeal. _It’s because of what she did to me,_ she thought fiercely. _Not because of Roan._

“Agreed,” Mother South said. “Shall we go?”

“Whoa, not now!” Dorothy held up her hands. “I need to get time off from work first, and I am _not_ going to disappear on my aunt and uncle again. How long do you think this will take?”

For the first time, Mother South looked puzzled. “How long it will take? There’s no telling. We’re going to fight a war.”

“Yeah, that’s _so_ reassuring,” Dorothy sighed, and tried to calculate how much leave time she had left.

In the end, she told Em and Henry that she wanted to take a road trip, _yes_ by herself, she needed time to think after recent events. They didn’t like it at all, but Dorothy was an adult and they couldn’t stop her.

Since there would be no way for her to call and talk to them, Dorothy settled for writing up a bunch of postcards and asking Susan’s girlfriend to mail them at periodic intervals; Ginny was an interstate trucker and was heading for Seattle. It wasn’t enough, but Dorothy couldn’t think of any other way to keep them from worrying too much.

The whole _thing_ was insane, she thought, but on some level, Dorothy had to admit it was kind of exciting, too.

She packed carefully for the trip, with better shoes this time, and a much bigger first-aid kit, and after some thought included the gun and all the ammunition she had left. Dorothy still felt sick at being the cause for the introduction of firearms into Oz, but now that they were there, she might as well stay armed. And, as she’d seen, a bullet might not kill a witch outright, but it certainly slowed one down.

The idea that _she_ was a witch was so strange that she didn’t quite believe it, yet.

She kissed Em and Henry goodbye that Saturday morning, climbed into her truck, and drove it six miles out of town to park it in an abandoned barn in the middle of an empty farm.

There was no one in sight when she stepped out of the building. Dorothy rolled the barn door shut, then yelped when she turned to find Mother South at her elbow. “How did you even _do_ that?”

The woman was wearing the same clothes, and the same placid expression. “Finding things is a very basic spell. Are you ready?”

Dorothy hitched her pack over one shoulder. “Yeah. This isn’t really tornado weather, though.”

Mother South chuckled. “Traveling by weather is East’s purview. I have my own method.”

She clapped her hands. Around the side of the building rolled a two-wheeled vehicle that looked a lot like a chariot, but pulling it--

 _“Shit!”_ Dorothy dodged behind Mother South. “Is that a _tiger?_ ”

“He won’t hurt you,” Mother South said, and stroked the massive animal’s ear; he nudged her hip with his head. His coat was lighter than the usual orange and striped with white instead of black, giving him almost a golden hue.

“Sure.” Dorothy eyed the animal warily, but when Mother South stepped into the chariot and gestured, Dorothy climbed up after her. _This is getting really surreal._

“Hold on,” Mother South said, and picked up the ribbons that led to the tiger’s harness. Dorothy got a cautious grip on the chariot’s side just as the ribbons slapped the tiger’s back.

He leaped forward, and the world blurred into a streak of color.


	3. Chapter 3

He was back where he belonged.

That was all Lucas could think of, in the long hours of pain. The slide of the blade into his flesh had broken whatever spell Glinda had laid on him, old or new, and the slow drip of his blood had leached the confusion and anger.

He had tried to kill Dorothy. Even if he’d refused at the last, or tried to, he’d set out with a blade in his hand and murder in his heart. Her binding him to the pole seemed fitting punishment, and remembering the cold fury in her eyes was only just.

Lucas closed his eyes, and let consciousness slip away again.

* * *

 

Dying seemed to be taking a long time. He kept waking, each time weaker and more thirsty; once he looked up to see a winged shadow passing overhead, blotting out the sun, but it seemed as much a dream as the flashes of memory passing before his eyes, and mattered as little.

He could barely see when a voice spoke from below, startled and sad. _Roan, how came you here?_ It sounded familiar, but all his blurring eyes could make out was the face of a lion.

 _That’s it, then,_ his mind said, idiotic with sun and thirst. _You’re to be eaten alive._

But first the lion had to get him down, so it did. And when the huge hairy head leaned over him, Lucas grinned with cracking lips and waited for its bite.

Instead it vanished in a swish of fur, and two hollow human eyes gazed back at him. _Oh,_ he thought. _I’m dreaming again._

A hand pressed at his side, and the lion was biting him after all. Lucas groaned, and tried to push it away, but its claws tore his wrists, and then the shadow returned to drag him under.

* * *

There followed a time of hot, unpleasant dreams--nightmares of children dying, Glinda walking away, Dorothy’s face smeared with dirt and tears. He slayed men over and over again, his sword running with blood; he sat in a chamber made of ice and shivered, but no one came when he shouted. The lion watched him, unmoving, and a low voice muttered curses directed at all of his ancestors.

When he finally, truly woke, his weakness was familiar. Once again, the infection in his side had been defeated, but this time it had left him too drained to move.

His surroundings were familiar too, the tumbled-over farmhouse where he and Dorothy and Leith had taken refuge. The memories made him wince, but a rough voice distracted him. “Got your memory back, did you?”

Lucas turned his head enough to see the form crouching at the hearth. “Eamonn.” HIs own voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Eamonn poked at the tiny fire, then picked up a cup, rising from his crouch to come and kneel by the bedroll where Lucas lay. “Here.”

He had to help Lucas drink. The flavor of sour beer and astringent herbs cleared his mouth and sharpened Lucas’ wits a little. “How did you find me?” The farmhouse was conspicuously absent the rest of Eamonn’s squad.

“I saw the crows. Figured there was something going on.” Eamonn sat on a stool pulled from the mess. “I didn’t expect to find you strung up again.” His gaze was sharp, and shame clogged Lucas’ throat.

“You should have left me there,” he said, the words thready.

Eamonn’s face, never cheerful, was suddenly sadder than Lucas had ever seen it. “I was granted mercy. Only right to give it in turn.”

That made no sense, but Lucas was too tired to ask, and Eamonn didn’t look as though he wanted to explain.

It wasn’t until Lucas was nearly asleep that he realized--Eamonn wore his armor, but he bore no sword.

* * *

 

Lucas’ recovery was slower, this time, but as Eamonn eventually told him, the fever had almost won. There was no one else in the farmhouse; Lucas didn’t know where Eamonn was getting the medicine to treat him, but Eamonn never left the house without putting on the lion helmet that had once been a relic of the Wizard’s triumphant conquering of Oz.

Gradually, their stories trickled out, in low words when the fire burned down to coals. It was a bitter mercy that Eamonn had received, but he acknowledged it; Ozma would have been within her rights to have Eamonn’s family slain before his eyes. He no longer existed for them, but at least they lived.

The Eamonn of the past would have left Lucas on the pole for deserting the Wizard’s Guard, never mind all that came after; it was hard to explain how his choices had led him to that point, but in the end the story was told.

Eamonn was silent for a long while, then shook his head. “Witches,” he said, and passed Lucas a hunk of bread.

“What’ll you do?” Lucas asked eventually. Eamonn shrugged, glancing at the lion helmet.

“Atone. Or maybe go walk into the maw of the Beast Forever.” He bit off a mouthful of cheese, then swallowed. “You?”

It was Lucas’ turn to think, but the need had been growing in him for some time, a churning restlessness that required answers. “I need to find Glinda.”

Eamonn grunted. “It’s your life,” he said. “But if she hangs you up again I’ll not be by to take you down.”

Lucas snorted, but his throat was tight, because Glinda might not have put him on the pole but she hadn’t come to take him down, either. No one had come for him, and while Lucas still wished Eamonn hadn’t found him, he wanted to look Glinda in the eye and ask her what she would have done if he’d succeeded.

Would she have taken him back, her wayward husband, if he’d removed her rival?

It made him sick, now, to remember what he’d been before he’d lost his memory, and yet he could see every step he’d taken to get there. Fighter, Wizard’s guard, a hard man proud of his skill and his rank. And yet, he’d given that up to become Mistress North’s man, to follow her vision, seduced by the power of her. To become first her soldier, then her lover.

The loss of memory had _changed_ him, somehow. Lucas didn’t like to think of himself as _malleable,_ but Dorothy had taken his blank page and...rewritten him. And he didn’t know why he preferred this softer, more innocent self, but he did.

Roan had followed Glinda’s orders without question. Dorothy made Lucas choose, every time.

 _I choose...I choose to be the man she made me._ Even if it was all too late.

_**I** choose. _

Roan had died on the pole. Lucas still lived.

There was something to be said, he thought dryly, for Eamonn’s scheme of atonement. But in the meantime--

_Glinda owes me some answers._

The asking might prove lethal, but he would pursue them all the same.

_As soon as I can walk, anyway._

Lucas closed his eyes and harbored his strength.

* * *

 

The days were slow and quiet. Lucas wasn’t entirely sure why Eamonn stayed with him once he was out of danger, but it wasn’t the sort of conversation either of them wanted to have, so he didn’t ask. It was hard enough, living in the house where he and Dorothy had been so happy, if only for a day’s time.

In a way, it helped that the building was so tumbled; ruined, Lucas tried not to think, the way he’d destroyed what they’d had. She haunted him, she and Leith, like ghosts of laughter, always just whisking around a corner when he lifted his head.

He was well enough to walk, if slowly, when he saw Eamonn pulling on his lion mask and his gauntlets. “Where’re you going?”

“Village.” Eamonn gestured towards the road, his voice muffled. “We need supplies.”

“I can go,” Lucas offered, but Eamonn snorted, which sounded ridiculous in the confines of the mask.

“You can go, aye, but you can barely lift a carrot, let alone carry one back.”

Lucas folded his arms, not bothering to deny it. “Then I’ll go with you.”

The hairy head turned away. “Might not be smart to be seen with an exile.”

Lucas gave that the raised brow it deserved, and Eamonn let out a gusty, hollow sigh and opened the farmhouse’s door.

Fortunately for Lucas’ dignity, Eamonn chose to make the trip at an amble. Lucas kept his breathing even and watched his step, because falling would be more than a little painful, but he was glad to be out of the farmhouse and taking in fresh air.

The village wasn’t much more than a mile away. It was a neat little hamlet, prosperous-looking, and Lucas was grateful for the bench outside the tavern; he sat down and waved Eamonn on, too winded to dissemble.

He’d been in half a hundred such, over the years; Oz had only a few cities. From his seat Lucas could see one end of the market, and he couldn’t miss the hush that fell when Eamonn walked down between the stalls.

The villagers didn’t seem hostile, though; they were wary, Lucas thought, maybe a little afraid. Eamonn made his selections by pointing, and if he spoke Lucas couldn’t hear it, but he finished his shopping quickly and headed back, sack swinging from one hand and a stoppered jug from the other.

He’d rested enough. Lucas pushed to his feet and took the sack as Eamonn reached him, ignoring the stares as they walked back out of town.

The trip back was, by necessity, slower, but Lucas’ pride made him carry the sack the entire way, even if he was stumbling by the time they reached the farm. Eamonn said nothing, merely holding the door open for him and then retrieving the sack when Lucas folded down onto his bedroll.

He did quirk a brow at Lucas when he lifted off the mask, and Lucas made a rude gesture in return, which won a snicker. Lucas rolled his eyes and lay back to try to recoup.

His recovery was faster, after that. Every day he walked a little farther into the land around the farm, regaining strength and wind, and gradually remembering how to set snares for game; it had been many years since he’d had to feed himself, and city-bred Eamonn had no hunting skills whatsoever.

It made Lucas wonder how Eamonn intended to live; what coin he had would run out eventually, and no one would hire an exile for work. But it was another question Lucas couldn’t ask, and besides he owed the man. So he caught more than they needed for the pot, and dried the rest over a fire, making sure to do it where Eamonn could watch.

 _It’s not as if you have any coin yourself,_ Lucas reminded himself wryly. _Nor strength to work, just yet._ But he could get enough to feed them both for a few days when they parted ways, and it was a start.

And there would be a parting. Lucas knew his answers, whatever they were, lay either in Glinda’s castle or in Emerald City; and Eamonn could never return to the latter.

There was the barest hint of chill in the air when Lucas knew he was healed enough. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said abruptly, stirring the stewpot; mostly hare, that night.

“You’re a fool,” Eamonn returned, but there was no heat in his words.

“Then I’ll be a fool.” Lucas didn’t point out that Eamonn’s lonely honor was as foolish as his own quest for answers; anyone with sense would have ditched the armor and made for the wilds with a new name.

Eamonn grunted, and sliced up a pear. Their last meal was eaten in a companionable silence, and Lucas reflected that he was going to miss Eamonn. Glinda had always been his superior; Dorothy had reminded him what it was like to have a friend.

 _Dorothy_. She was with him, waking and sleeping; he dreamed of her almost every night, and woke with tears in his eyes when she died under his hands. Worse was when she kissed him tenderly, because waking broke his heart all over again.

 _You deserve it,_ Lucas reminded himself, and knew his penance would be life-long.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making stuff up as I go along. Like Mother South, and West’s name. She just looks like a Morwen to me. Also the Beast Forever's effects, etc. 
> 
> Warning: I really don’t like Glinda. I am not inclined to make her a sympathetic character. If you think she should be redeemed, you should probably not read this one. 
> 
> I understand that Tip is a boy, but at this point in time he hasn’t hammered that home to West, and she’s looking at his current physical form and using that as a label. See my disclaimer about how the opinions of the characters aren’t necessarily mine. Really, the only people who know his gender are the witches who were there when he claimed his heritage, because right now he has to be Ozma for his people. Hopefully, this will change.

The Vessel of Truth and Solace was...pleased. Despite the return of the Beast Forever, despite the shadow that lay over Emerald City, despite the destruction and despair spreading through the land; despite all of it. 

Part of it was simply the defeat of the Wizard, useless old lump that he had been, and the restoration of magic and power where it rightly belonged. Part of it was seeing Pastoria’s heir take her throne; the Cardinal Witches had always acknowledged the traditional ruler of Oz, and it was good to have that balance restored. 

Part of it, though she would never breathe a word of it to anyone in any tongue, was feeling her Mother’s arms around her, hearing _“Morwen”_ whispered in her ear in love and tenderness; the first time in over twenty years that anyone had spoken her _name_ rather than her title. 

But a large part of it was purely seeing Glinda _sulk_. Nothing delighted Morwen so much as the Mother of the Sound and Pure getting put firmly in her place. 

So she folded her arms, leaned her shoulders against one of the pavilion’s poles, and watched with carefully contained glee as Queen Ozma shut Glinda down. 

“No.” Ozma lifted her chin and held Glinda’s gaze, no easy task even for a witchling. “We will _not_ throw lives away against the Beast Forever, not until you can prove to me that it will have an effect!” 

“It _will_ have an effect! We can weaken the Beast if we just--” 

“I said _no._ ” Ozma already had the trick of commanding, Morwen thought approvingly as Glinda fell silent, looking taken aback. _Boy, girl, or tomato, she’s got the knack. Now if only she can keep it._

Morwen didn’t fool herself. They were in a bad position, a nearly hopeless one, and it was only Mother South’s wild hope--loudly protested by Glinda _and_ Morwen--that might save them. 

_I’ll admit it to myself, if not to anyone else. We’re out of ideas._

But Mother South, freed by the Wizard’s death and no longer submitting to Glinda’s control, was still the mistress of them all, and she thought she could convince the interloper girl to help them. 

_So off she went, and here we wait, squabbling._ Morwen knew quite well that what Glinda wanted most of all was the defeat of the Beast Forever using her witchlings--a triumph that would give her the power and ascendency she craved. But Ozma, canny child, was refusing. 

_Don’t know how long she can keep it up, though._ “Mother South told us to wait,” Morwen said, straightening and stepping up to Ozma’s side. “Are you defying both her _and_ our Queen?” 

Ozma’s mouth twitched, almost a flinch, but she didn’t move otherwise. Glinda switched her glare to Morwen, who gave her a sweet smile. After a moment, Glinda jerked away, barely nodding to Ozma as she stalked off. 

“Nicely done, my Queen,” Morwen said out of the corner of her mouth; no sense in riling Glinda enough to make her come storming back. 

Ozma blew out a breath and sat down on the nearest bench as if her knees had given way. “When is Mother South coming _back?_ ” she asked, and if it was almost a wail, at least she was keeping her voice down. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Morwen shook her head, sobering. “I don’t know, but it should be soon. You’re doing fine, you know. What your people need more than anything right now is to see you staying calm.” 

Ozma’s eyes flashed as she sat up. “What my people _need_ is the death of the Beast Forever,” she said hotly. “They _need_ a cure for the plague.” 

Half-chagrined, half-amused, Morwen inclined her head. “I stand corrected, your Majesty.” 

“Oh, stop that.” Ozma slumped again. They were speaking in low tones despite the emptiness of the huge tent; normally the Queen’s presence would be thronged with guards, courtiers, and petitioners, even in this semi-organized retreat, but Ozma had ordered them all out for a few minutes’ rest. The few guards remaining were mostly posted around the evacuation camp, though two did stand at the pavilion’s entrance. Morwen wondered dryly how long they would last, between the plague and the trickle of desertion. _At this rate we’ll be guarded by Glinda’s witchlngs before long._

She glanced upwards uneasily. The monstrous creature perched on Emerald City’s highest spire couldn’t be seen from where they were, at least ten miles from the city, but its presence was palpable. The shadow it cast grew daily, and where it fell pestilence and blight followed, felling men, beasts, and plants. The only mercy to be found, so far, was that witches were immune to the disease. 

_And our powers can fight it off in others...for a time. But we only have so much strength._ Only a witch could _kill_ a witch--but a witch could die if her powers were drained too far. 

They were fighting a holding action, but as the Beast’s shadow expanded, they would lose. 

They’d evacuated the city in a scramble when the first attempts to kill the Beast Forever proved fruitless, and Ozma’s retinue had set up a makeshift court using campaign tents from the last war. But they’d had to retreat as the Beast’s shadow grew, and it showed no signs of stopping. Not everyone had been able to leave; there were still people in the shadowed area, sick and dying. 

Ozma prodded at her crown. “I hope she can find us,” she said quietly. “We’ll probably have to move again tomorrow.” 

“Don’t worry about that.” Morwen bit her lip, considering. They would be coming up against the border with Ev before too long, and she had no idea how the neighboring kingdom would react to refugees--all the more so since Ev had no ruling family any longer. _Perhaps we can veer east instead._ But that would take them over mountains, and they had at least three hundred people and not nearly enough mounts or carts for everyone. _Let’s hope Mother South returns before then._

Morwen wondered sourly if the Kansas girl would agree to come back. The only good thing about it would be how much her presence would annoy Glinda. 

“The remaining guard can get this herd moving if we give them enough warning,” she continued. “As long as the Beast Forever doesn’t stir his ugly arse and come closer.” 

Ozma shrugged, smiling faintly. “Ryenne will have to handle it for now.” Glinda’s assistant had a talent for organization. “In the meantime, I need to see the steward about supplies.” 

Morwen made an exaggerated curtsey, just to amuse her. “May I attend you, my Queen?” 

Ozma grinned, and in a rare moment of whimsy, extended her arm. Morwen looped her own through it, and they left the pavilion to head for the mess tent. 

The camp was a busy place, with everyone from displaced nobles to refugees from Emerald City’s humblest streets trying to carry on, with the addition of most of Glinda’s witchlings. Morwen wondered irritably why her sister didn’t just pack them all home again, but she had to admit that the ones with the most control of their power were proving useful in caring for the sick. 

As they neared their goal, Morwen frowned. A tall man with short-cropped hair was arguing with one of the royal guard, and he looked familiar. She pricked up her ears. 

“--must see Mistress North,” the man was saying. “I _must_.” 

_Oh._ Morwen stiffened. 

She knew the taste of him, remembered how he’d been entangled by Glinda’s spell. _Oh, **my**. Dorothy’s devoted hound. How unexpected._

But before she could decide what to do about him, Ozma straightened, pulling free of Morwen. “You!” she said, her voice harsh with surprise. “I remember you.” 

The man--Dorothy had called him Lucas--turned, hand falling towards the hilt of a sword he wasn’t wearing. At the sight of them, he hesitated, then swept a proper bow. “Your Majesty?” 

Ozma swept up to him, gaze intent. “You were with the girl who freed me.” 

Lucas frowned in puzzlement, brows drawing together. “Dorothy? She freed you? But--” He cocked his head, face softening a little. “Ah. My apologies, your Majesty. I didn’t recognize you.” 

Ozma waved that off impatiently. “Are you here to join the Wizard’s guard? The Wizard is dead.” 

“I--so I’m told.” Lucas glanced warily at Morwen. “I need to see Mistress North.” 

Morwen snorted. “Now’s not a good time to disturb her,” she drawled. “If you want to keep your balls intact, that is.” 

“You’re a soldier,” Ozma interrupted. “Aren’t you?” 

The man’s shoulders shifted uncomfortably. “I was one, once.” 

“Then I’m conscripting you,” Ozma said firmly. “For my personal guard.” 

Lucas’ mouth dropped open, making him look, Morwen thought unsympathetically, exactly like a stunned ox. She mastered her own surprise--it was a good idea, an _excellent_ idea, given the man’s tendency towards unswerving devotion. There weren’t enough guards to adequately protect Ozma and even one more would be a help. 

“I--your Majesty, I’m not--” he began, but Morwen stepped forward. 

“You’ll do fine,” she told him, looking him over with a critical eye. He stared back, gaze chilling, but she’d dealt with much worse. “And if it’s my sister you want to see, you’ll definitely get the opportunity.” 

His brows went up at that, but after a long, thoughtful moment it was to Ozma he bowed. “It would be my privilege, your Majesty.” 

Ozma, who had folded her arms impatiently, nodded. “Good. Orual,” she said, beckoning to one of the witchlings hurrying past, “take this man to the guard captain and tell him he’s joining the Royal guard. I want him attending me as soon as he has a sword. Don’t bother with the uniform right now.” 

Lucas blinked. “May I wash first, your Majesty?” he said mildly. 

Ozma nodded. Morwen narrowed her eyes, thinking. 

“Orual,” she said to the page, “I’ll take him, I want to have a few words with him. You go with the Queen.” She spoke her next words in the guttural witches’ tongue. _“If anyone so much as thinks about threatening her, drain their blood out through their skin. You remember the spell.”_

The pale little witchling, who couldn’t be more than ten, nodded with grim pride and took Ozma’s hand. The Queen frowned, but allowed herself to be led away, while Morwen took Lucas’ arm in a firm grip and began walking towards the front of the camp. She’d long since given up cursing the circumstances that had children learning death-magic, but it was still a bitter thing. 

Lucas moved into place next to her with more grace than Morwen expected, though his arm was stiff in her clasp. She smirked up at him. “The only reason I’m not skinning you and presenting your hide to my sister is because you can be useful. We haven’t enough of anyone competent to keep things running properly, and I know you’re good in a fight.” 

Which was an understatement, for all she’d heard of him, but Morwen didn’t feel like handing out compliments just then. 

Lucas looked down at her, face shuttered. “That’s kind of you, Mistress,” he said after a moment. 

“It’s _practical_ of me,” she corrected. “And as I’m sure you’ve heard, witches are terribly practical.” 

He shook his head, but not in denial. “It’s very strange,” he said softly. “But I’m glad to to be of service.” 

Morwen chuckled. “For most men that would be a lie.” They walked briskly along for a few minutes, dodging people busy on their own errands; one moved to intercept them, but Morwen knew him for a spoiled noble who wanted to beg favors, and threw him a glare that made him back out of their way. 

“What do you want with Glinda?” she asked when they reached a relatively clear space. 

He gave her a level look. “That’s between the two of us.” 

Morwen smirked. She’d heard enough gossip among the witchlings to know, now, what Lucas had been to Glinda, and just why her sister hated the Kansas girl so much; but she wasn’t inclined to let Lucas realize that. _Much more fun to watch the conflagration when Glinda spots him at Ozma’s side._

As for what might happen when or if the Kansas girl returned--that would be even _more_ entertaining. 

She patted Lucas’ arm and walked a little faster. “We’ll get you that wash, and a meal too, as soon as we’ve seen the captain.” After all these years, Morwen understood hospitality very well, particularly when it came to men. “And then you’ll report to the Queen. You’ll be her particular guard; I want you with her whenever possible.” And she’d make sure the captain understood that as well. 

Lucas dipped his head. “Yes, MIstress West,” he said, and she patted his arm again, and hummed a charm under her breath--nothing elaborate, just a bit of protection, because he was going to need it once Glinda knew he was here. 

Yes, this would be _extremely_ interesting. 


	5. Chapter 5

Dorothy’s first trip to Oz had been a howling confusion of wind and terror that had knocked her unconscious before she’d landed. This time the journey seemed timeless, both hours long and over in an instant. The colorful blur resolved into rolling green hills, with the nearest valley half-filled with a forest of medieval-looking tents. 

Dorothy gulped, clutching the side of the chariot hard enough to numb her fingers, but it rolled to a demure stop, the tiger panting slightly but otherwise looking unruffled. 

“You can get out, my dear,” Mother South said, laying down the ribbons. Dorothy jumped down to the turf, settling her bag on her shoulder and looking around. 

They were on the crest of one of the low hills, and the view was breathtaking. Dorothy turned slowly, drawing in the air--surprisingly sweet--and wondering if she’d made the right choice in coming back; the sight of it, all bright crisp colors, made her more apprehensive than anything else. 

On the horizon, too far away for her to see any detail, sat a dark gray cloud. It looked almost like a distant mountain, not like a weather phenomenon or even smoke, and looking at it made Dorothy feel very cold. 

“The Beast Forever,” Mother South said softly, coming to stand beside her. “That is its shadow, and it grows day by day.” 

“I thought the Beast Forever was a flood,” Dorothy said, trying to estimate the distance. 

“Last time it was.” Mother South’s face was creased with sadness. “Before that it was a fire. This time, it is an actual creature.” 

_Maybe I should have brought a rocket launcher._ “So what do we do about it? Those stone giants might actually have been useful, but--” 

“As I said. We raise the power needed for the champion.” Dorothy glanced over at her, and did a double-take. Mother South’s slacks and sweater had somehow morphed into a creamy yellow gown, one that left her arms bare but swept past her ankles. A long, gem-embroidered scarf in the same fabric looped around her throat, and a web of amber stones in gold bound back her hair. Unlike East’s fantastical outfit, the dress didn’t seem to move on its own, but Dorothy considered that more reassuring than not. 

“So who gets to be the champion?” Dorothy hitched the strap of her bag up higher on her shoulder. 

“That is part of what we must discover.” Mother South walked over to the tiger and scratched him behind one ear; he made a low rumbling noise and leaned into the touch. Dorothy stayed prudently where she was. 

Mother South said something to the tiger in a language Dorothy didn’t recognize, then gave him a pat and turned back. “We should go; the others will be waiting.” 

“Right.” Dorothy watched with astonishment as the tiger stretched in its harness, then quietly turned into an extremely large, blond man dressed only in a pair of loose shorts. He stood up, grabbed the yoke of the chariot in both hands, gave Dorothy a wink and a very toothy grin, and vanished into thin air. 

Along with the chariot. 

_Um._ Dorothy opened her mouth, then closed it. Mother South was walking briskly down the hill towards the tent city; Dorothy shook her head, and ran to catch up. 

For someone so short, Mother South set a pace that had Dorothy stretching her legs, though the witch managed to do it without looking the least bit ruffled. People had spotted them, it seemed; several had gathered outside the tent city and were pointing up the hill. Dorothy swallowed hard. _I’m not sure I’m ready for this._

The numbers had swelled to a small crowd by the time Dorothy and Mother South reached the tents. Under the pressure of all those eyes, Dorothy felt her shoulders stiffening, but Mother South seemed unbothered; an aisle opened for them as they neared, and she simply kept going, giving the nearest people a gracious smile but not slowing down. 

Dorothy lifted her chin and hitched her bag higher, and kept up. Voices murmured as they passed, but they sounded more curious than hostile, and Dorothy did her best to ignore them. 

The biggest tents were at the center of the camp; the tallest one was flying a green pennant. But there were fewer people around, and most of them were young girls in dun-colored smocks. 

Dorothy figured grimly that it meant that Glinda was there somewhere, and she couldn’t help looking for Sylvie-- _Leith_. But all of the girls were too old, and then Mother South was lifting aside the flap of one tent and passing through, beckoning Dorothy after her. 

Dorothy was half-expecting thick rugs and carved furniture, like a medieval fantasy film, but the tent--though its peak was about twelve feet high--was sparsely furnished. The grass was covered by a layer of canvas, and there were only a couple of stools and a folding table, and a few crates. Half of the space was blocked off by a hanging cloth, but as they entered one end of it flipped aside and a girl ducked out. 

She had skin as dark as East’s had been and a wealth of braids, and was dressed like the other girls; Dorothy thought she was probably about fourteen. Mother South gestured her over. 

“Mistress Gale has agreed to help us,” she told the girl. “Inform the others, and ask Queen Ozma if we may attend upon her.” 

“She’s in conference with the armorers, Mother,” the girl replied respectfully. “Not to be disturbed.” 

Mother South pursed her lips. “Leave a message then. And have refreshments sent over. Tea, I think.” Her gaze flicked to Dorothy, a considering look. “I take it all the arrangements are in place?” 

The girl nodded. “Yes, Mother.” It was clearly a title rather than a familiar address, but the girl spoke it easily. Mother South gave her a warm smile. 

“Off with you then, and tell my daughters I expect the best of them.” 

The girl smirked, and whisked out. Mother South made an amused sound. “A good child. Do sit down; you’ve a tent of your own, but I think this meeting is better held on neutral ground.” 

Dorothy grimaced. _Yeah, I bet._ But she sat cautiously on one of the stools, setting her bag down next to it. “The card you showed me.” Her thumb sought the inked skin of her other hand, rubbing as if she could remember the pain of the marking. “Who told you about that symbol?” 

“Your Jane, of course.” The witch whisked her skirts out of the way to sit on another stool. “She refused at first, in fear for your safety, but in the end I convinced her. We are, after all, both mothers.” Her smile was serene. 

Dorothy’s hands gripped one another tightly. “Where--where is she?” 

“In the medical tent, I believe. She’s not a physician, but she has some knowledge of medicine.” Mother South unwound her scarf and shook it out. “I’ll send a page for her when we’re done here.” 

Part of Dorothy wanted to insist on seeing Jane _first_ , before anything else. But she barely even remembered the woman’s face, everything had happened so fast--just a flash of glasses, a swirl of hair, an anxious voice making promises that were broken in the next breath-- 

It was a strange stinging hurt still, even after a month of thinking about it, and Dorothy pushed it away. “Very well.” 

Mother South’s gaze was compassionate, but Dorothy pushed that away too. “You keep talking about a ritual to raise power, but what does that really mean?” 

Mother South wrapped the scarf back around her neck, letting the ends fall over her shoulders. “It means the four of us united, feeding our power into the champion prophesied to defeat the Beast Forever. But that’s the second part.” 

Dorothy considered the idea of working with Glinda and West. “What’s the first part?” It couldn’t possibly be _harder._

“Finding the champion.” 

_Ooookay, maybe not._ At her incredulous look, Mother South turned up a hand. “Glinda’s eldest girls are going through the records. There is a long-standing prediction that if a _champion_ can defeat the Beast Forever, it will be for all time. But no one alive remembers _who_ the champion is supposed to be.” 

She reached out to snag the small table and place it between them, then waved a hand over it. Dorothy watched in astonished fascination as a tea tray with a pot and four cups faded into view, fitting neatly on the table. They were all black lacquer, and the pot had steam rising from the spout. 

... _I guess that’s magic._ Dorothy licked her lips. “If the tea’s what West drinks, I’ll pass.” 

Mother South chuckled. “It’s merely tea. Ah, here they are.” 

Dorothy heard the tent flap open behind her, and turned to look over her shoulder. The page stood in the opening. “Mother of the Sound and Pure, Vessel of Truth and Solace,” she announced, and stepped aside. 

Glinda stalked in first. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn on the battlefield when Dorothy had last seen her, and her face was pinched as if at a bad smell; she ignored Dorothy completely as she crossed the tent. 

“Mother,” she said coolly, taking the hands Mother South lifted and bending to press her them to her own forehead. Mother South murmured something too softly for Dorothy to catch, and a hint of color appeared on Glinda’s cheeks as she straightened and stepped back. 

West, on the other hand, dropped to sit on the floor in front of Mother South without a hint of self-consciousness, and did the same with the hands extended to her. Her expression was softer than Dorothy had ever seen it. 

Mother South let go and gave West’s tangled hair a smoothing stroke. “Children,” she said, voice low and firm. “I need you to honor one another as we do this work. Without unity among us, the Beast Forever will triumph.” 

Dorothy looked at West’s pursed lips and Glinda’s icy glare. “I’m good with it,” she said, mostly out of an urge to be perverse. 

West regarded her for a long moment, leaning back against Mother South’s knee, then rose so smoothly it looked as if she were levitating. “Far be it from me to be so rude,” she said, her voice heavy with irony, but she didn’t seem hostile. Her eyes had that peculiar witchy brightness as she glanced at her sister. 

Glinda stared down her nose at the floor about a foot in front of Dorothy. “I will comply,” she said icily. “For the work.” 

“Good.” Mother South lifted the pot. “Then sit, and have tea.” 

Dorothy half-expected Glinda to refuse, but she called one of the stools over to her with a sharp gesture--Dorothy barely held in a flinch as it scooted across the canvas--and sat, wrapping her skirts around her legs as if to protect them from contamination. West moved her stool with one hand in the usual way and straddled it, a tiny smile playing on her lips. 

Mother South poured, handing the first cup to Dorothy; the tea smelled like ordinary black tea, and Dorothy just held the cup for the moment, since it was still steaming. 

“So.” West smiled over the rim of her own cup; it was not a friendly look. “What did Mother promise you to make you come back?” 

“Your head on a stick,” Dorothy returned without thinking, irritated. Glinda’s expression grew even more sour, but West’s brows went up, and she laughed outright. 

“That’s the spirit,” she said. “She even sounds like East already.” 

“Impossible,” Glinda muttered into her tea, but Mother South smiled. Dorothy felt her spine crinkle. Was it true? Was being a witch going to _infect_ her somehow, make her more like the cruel woman who had so casually hurt her and Lucas? 

“What was she like?” Dorothy asked. “Before--uh, before?” 

“Merciful and stern,” West said, still smirking. Mother South sighed. 

“She was mercurial, and solitary; she seldom visited any of us, and kept no one besides her servants. I urged her to take an apprentice, and she was considering it, but then--” 

She fell silent, and Dorothy nodded and sipped her tea gingerly. It was just cool enough to be bearable. “How’d you survive? Everybody seemed to think you were dead.” 

“Glinda hid me.” Her glance at Mistress North was both fond and a little annoyed. “Not what I wanted, but it was for the best, in the end.” 

Glinda’s expression finally shifted, to haughty pride, though it was mostly directed at West. Dorothy squashed the urge to say something rude just to break Glinda’s stony composure. _You just told Mother South you’ll be good. Don’t screw it up yet._ “I wanted only to protect you,” Glinda said. 

Mother South patted her knee. “I know, my dear.” Her tone was almost condescending, but instead of taking offense Glinda preened. West was watching with narrowed eyes, though her expression was mostly hidden behind her teacup. 

Dorothy’s perception shifted with a lurch that left her blinking. _Sibling rivalry. They’re acting like kids competing for Mom’s attention...and she lets them._

It was _absurd_ , they were both adults and probably much older than they looked, but-- _that’s her power. She’s the Mother._

She’d felt the pull of it herself, back in Kansas, the desire to lean on the little woman and let her take care of things. _Is that how she keeps things balanced?_

Dorothy took another sip of tea. _Well, it’s not going to work with me._ She might not have a mother, not the way most people did, but she wasn’t just going to fall into South’s lap either. 

“What’s the Beast Forever like?” she asked abruptly. “You said it was a real creature this time?” 

Mother South’s smile disappeared, and West shuddered. “It’s big,” West said. “A huge shape with wings. It’s nesting on top of the palace in Emerald City.” 

“It has brought pestilence and death,” Mother South said soberly. “Beneath its shadow, all grow sick and die.” 

Dorothy wrinkled her nose. “Sickness? I wish you’d mentioned this before, I could have brought more drugs.” 

“It’s magic,” Glinda said, addressing her for the first time. “There is no cure for it but more magic.” 

“Clearly you’ve never had amoxicillin,” Dorothy returned, even though she had no idea if the Beast’s illness was even bacterial. Glinda huffed angrily, but Mother South held up a hand. 

“This is not fruitful. Dorothy, you can visit the medical tent later if you wish, but your purpose here is to destroy the cause behind the illness. Anything else is a holding action that we cannot sustain.” 

The smug look on Glinda’s face made Dorothy want to smack it off her, but Mother South tapped Glinda’s arm. “Dorothy’s left her world to help us. We owe her courtesy, not mockery for what she has had no chance to learn.” 

Glinda’s glance at Dorothy was venomous, but her expression returned to its original pinched look. “I understand, Mother.” 

West snickered loudly. _I always wanted a brother or a sister,_ Dorothy thought. _But maybe I was better off without..._

A familiar jingling sound caught Dorothy’s ears, and then a whimper and a snuffle. A hairy form shoved through the tent-flap, and a second later Toto was planting huge paws in Dorothy’s lap and trying to lick her face. She laughed, barely managing to set her cup down safely, and ruffled his fur in greeting. “Toto! I wondered what happened to you.” 

“The creature bonded with Leith,” Glinda said, ostentatiously moving her skirts out of the way of Toto’s thrashing tail. “It seemed unwise to part them.” 

“She tried to lay a spell on it and Leith threw a fit,” West supplied, grinning. “The child actually managed to _block_ the spell. She’ll be quite a witch, that one.” 

Dorothy buried her face in Toto’s ruff to hide her own grin. “You can bite her face off, if you want,” she whispered, only half-joking. 

Toto’s tongue lolled happily. “Where is, ah, Leith?” Dorothy asked, looking around. 

West glanced at Glinda, who said nothing, and answered. “Probably on duty. The little ones are serving as pages for the moment.” 

Dorothy wanted to protest, but it sounded like a safe occupation--much better than soldiers, certainly. She nodded and let Toto go, and he collapsed down to lay his head on her foot. 

_At least **some** body’s glad to see me. _

She wondered if Leith would be too. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me breaking the One Steve Limit. Because I can. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to takiki16 for letting me run with her fairy tale meta! I hope to explore this further in later chapters.

Becoming Queen Ozma’s personal guard, Lucas found, was oddly familiar _._

It wasn’t the queen herself, of course. Between illness, poisoning, and the reemergence of his violent skills, Lucas barely remembered the child Dorothy had insisted on freeing from the apothecary witch’s house. Nor was the tent city familiar, or the slow, creaking journey of its populace to move another length or two away from the Beast Forever’s growing shadow. 

No, the familiarity came with standing behind her shoulder, attention focused outward for threats rather than inward at what she might be saying or doing. He’d done just this sort of service before as Glinda’s shadow, her shield and weapon. 

Not that many had challenged Glinda, to be sure; even with her powers outlawed she was formidable, and few dared to tempt her wrath. But he’d been there, just in case. 

_No. Roan was there._

It was important to keep the distinction in his mind. Roan was before. Lucas was...now. 

In the three days since he’d arrived at the camp, Lucas had learned a lot. He’d tried twice to see Glinda, but both times her attendants turned him away, saying she was absent, gone back to Calcedon on some errand. So he’d returned to stand behind the plain chair Ozma was using as a throne, in the bare tent that served for her court, and watched the officials and nobles come and go, bearing pleas and reports and problems for the young queen to deal with. 

Lucas was growing fond of the stoic little Queen; she had a tendency to mutter sarcastic comments under her breath when frustrated, which was most of the time, and her wit could be scathing. The first time he’d murmured a response, she’d whipped around to stare at him, then had to hide her snickers in a coughing fit. And while he scarcely remembered her presence from the ill-fated attempt to break Glinda’s memory spell either, Dorothy had told him later how Mistress West’s servant girl had risked her own neck to free Dorothy from the witch’s prison. 

Now he stood behind Ozma, attention on those coming and going, and kept his face impassive. He’d been issued a sword, but it was his dagger he kept close at hand, because in close quarters it was the more useful weapon. The fact that it had last been used on _him_ was something Lucas tried to ignore. 

His situation wasn’t what he’d expected, but it _was_ good to be needed. 

_It’s not like you knew what you were going to do anyway,_ he told himself as Ozma discussed provisioning with a trio of officers and a heavy-set official. _Nor what will happen when--_

His mind shied away from the thought of confronting Glinda. Lucas wasn’t even sure what he would say to her; only that something needed to be said. 

The crowd of busy people grew quieter, parting as Mistress West stepped into the tent, and Ozma glanced up from her current discussion, but Mistress West merely waved a hand and went to stand at one side, apparently content to wait. She was a favorite with Ozma, though from what Lucas had been able to observe so far, the support of the Cardinal Witches was a large part of why Ozma was able to keep her power. 

Lucas was just grateful that Dorothy was out of the witches’ reach. He didn’t know _where_ she was, but there were enough stories going around of the Wizard’s wind and how it had carried away Mistress East’s killer. 

_Back in Kansas, I hope. Wherever that is. Safe._ He fervently hoped. 

Mistress West had settled at one side of the tent, arms folded and eyes fixed on--not Ozma, Lucas realized with sudden uneasiness. On _him._

He turned his attention away from her and focused on his task. Whatever she wanted, she’d make it known in her own time, and-- 

An older witchling folded back the tent flap and cleared her throat. “The Maiden of the Northern Light, Mother of the Sound and Pure,” she said loudly, and the tent’s occupants fell silent as Glinda walked slowly in. 

Something cold expanded through Lucas’ middle, and the fresh scar in his side pulsed hotly in contrast. He felt his attention splitting, a combat familiarity; half on Glinda, and half on Ozma and those surrounding her. His under-mind was ready to fight if a threat should appear, but the rest of him was suddenly helpless, because he’d loved her-- _Roan_ had loved her, to the point of death, and yet-- 

Glinda’s head was high, all cool beauty and reclaimed power, and she moved through the little crowd looking more like a queen than Ozma did. As her gaze moved across the tent, he could see the pleasure glinting from under her lowered lids--and then her eyes widened as she saw him. 

Her fingers flicked, and _something--_ Lucas couldn’t tell what--washed over him, making his skin prickle like winter sparks. But no more than that. 

Glinda’s mouth tightened, and Lucas guessed that whatever she’d tried hadn’t worked as she’d intended, though he had no idea _why_. But she looked away, lifting her chin, and ignored him as she came to offer salute to Ozma. 

Lucas held still, and kept his breathing even with an effort. Much as he wanted to confront Glinda, he was there to protect Ozma, and he would do that first. 

“Have you had news from Mother South?” Ozma was asking, and Glinda bowed her head, smiling. 

“She’s returned, yes, and her journey was a success.” To most Glinda probably looked merely pleased, but Lucas still knew her, and there was anger there too, carefully held in check. 

Ozma let out a long breath of relief. Glinda held up a hand. “Mother South has asked that she be allowed to rest. This has all been very...taxing for her.” 

The Queen grimaced, but nodded. “Very well. I’ll see her tomorrow then.” 

Glinda nodded graciously and turned to go. Ozma shot a glance up at Lucas, and smiled, a wicked expression, before raising her voice. 

“Mistress North,” she said, cutting through the renewed buzz of conversation, and Glinda, halfway to the exit, turned. “Our loyal guard wishes speech with you.” 

Lucas almost choked. Ozma gestured at him. “He’ll be along to see you shortly; be prepared to receive him.” 

Glinda’s eyes flared with witchlight...then went dark. She nodded again, clearly reluctant. “As your majesty pleases,” she said stiffly, and swept out. 

Lucas swallowed hard. “Your majesty,” he began, because he hadn’t anticipated just being thrown into the situation, with no time to _plan_. He ignored the tiny plaintive voice that asked _Plan for what exactly?_

Ozma chuckled. “It’s why you came, isn’t it?” she said, and beckoned to one of the pages standing nearby. “Susan, fetch me another guard.” 

A few minutes later Lucas found himself summarily dismissed and walking towards Glinda’s section of the compound, still astonished. Before he could decide exactly what he was going to say, a familiar hand touched his arm. 

“I’ve been ordered to go with you,” Mistress West said, smiling up at him in a way that boded no good for anyone. 

Lucas raised his brows. “We both know you only obey as it pleases you.” 

Her smirk edged towards a frown, but not an angry one. “Yes, but I know my sister. And you’d better not go in there alone.” 

Lucas gave her a long look. “Why do you care?” 

Mistress West grinned again, broad and bright. “ _That_ would be telling.” She patted his arm. “Come along. I promise I won’t speak unless I have to.” 

Lucas thought about arguing, and then thought better of it. He knew Glinda had tried _some_ magic on him in Ozma’s tent, and he now suspected that MIstress West was why it hadn’t worked; if Glinda were willing to bespell him on sight in a room full of people, there was no telling what she would do in private. 

“All right,” he muttered, and kept walking. Mistress West kept pace with his long strides, humming to herself, and Lucas set himself to ignore her. His business was with Glinda, and paying Mistress West any attention would just be a distraction. 

The witchling guarding Glinda’s tent let them both in with nothing more than a wary look. The pavilion was better appointed than most, with a carpet underfoot and carved lanterns hanging from the struts, but Lucas scarcely noticed, because Glinda was waiting for them in the middle of the room, seated on a bench and somehow managing to make it look like a throne. 

It was an old trick of hers, but effective. Habit urged Lucas to bow and ask her will; he straightened his spine instead. “Glinda.” 

She looked him over, cold and remote, and then past him to Mistress West. “You’re not welcome here.” 

Lucas didn’t look away from Glinda, but he heard the hiss of fabric and pictured Mistress West folding her arms. “Too bad. I’m under orders,” she said flatly. 

Glinda’s lips tightened, and then she turned back to Lucas, dismissing her sister. “Roan.” 

Her face was beloved to his memory; he remembered the scent that hung in the ivory fall of her hair, the texture of her skin under his lips. But it was all distant, without the urgency of passion, as if it had been experienced by someone else. 

_It was._

“That’s not my name,” he said at last. 

Her expression didn’t change. “Then why are you here?” 

Lucas licked his lips. “For answers.” He took a step forward. “Did you enspell me to kill Dorothy?” 

That was the heart of it. _Was_ his confusion, his murderous intent, merely his own cowardice? Or had Glinda done something to be sure her dictate would be carried out? 

Slowly, Glinda rose to her feet, all grace. “The Roan I knew--that I _loved_ \--would not have needed any such encouragement.” 

_The man I loved would have gutted her,_ she said in his memory. Lucas pulled in a breath. “But I wasn’t.” 

“You told me to use my magic.” She glided forward. “To tear her from you.” 

“And you told me _I_ had to do it. To kill her...or you would.” Was it that promise that had driven him forth? 

“And you did.” She came closer still, lifting her chin to look up at him; it had always seemed wrong, that he should be above her. Her voice went hard. “Or so I thought, until I learned you had failed me.” 

Lucas refused to flinch. “What if I had succeeded? Would you have taken me back, Glinda? Made me your consort again?” 

“Of course I would,” she said lowly, and he felt the old pull as he met her eyes, the invitation to drown in her; but the compulsion sank away again, as if it could get no hold. “I loved you.” 

Oh, she had, she had...as a woman loves a devoted hound. “You haven’t answered my question. _Did you enspell me?”_

Her gaze held his. “Of course not.” 

Bile rose in his throat, and Lucas swallowed against it, trying not to be sick on the tent’s pristine carpet. _Then it **was** me. I wanted to kill Dorothy--I nearly **did** kill her-- _ He could still remember the furious compulsion, the _need_ to destroy her, even as the new-born part of him struggled against it. 

_Dorothy’s own spell saved her._ He had that to comfort him, at least. Her nascent powers had protected her. 

Lucas took a deep breath, wrenching his emotions under control. “You loved me. But you left me to die.” Because he had no doubt she had known exactly where he had gone to find Dorothy. “I tried to keep faith with you--” 

“And you _failed._ ” Glinda’s voice was a whipcrack. “Even _with_ my help you failed. She contaminated you--made you worthless.” 

Glinda lifted a hand, contempt written in every line of her. “Even a dog has loyalty, but you have none. You are not my husband. My husband is dead.” 

It should have hurt. He knew that; it was _meant_ to hurt. But Lucas just felt numb. “Yes. He is.” 

Glinda’s face hardened, and she closed her fingers into a fist, speaking a word in the witches’ tongue. But the blue light that spat from her hand dissipated as it struck him, an instant of icy cold but no more than that. 

“How--” she began, then glanced past Lucas. _“You.”_

“As I said,” came Mistress West’s drawl; Lucas had almost forgotten she was there. “I’m under orders.” 

“Then take him back to his mistress.” Glinda turned her back on them both. “I have work to do.” 

Mistress West made a derisive noise. Lucas clenched his shaking hands on his belt to try to still them, and left the tent without looking back. 

The cool evening air felt unreal; Lucas scarcely saw his surroundings, and it wasn’t until Mistress West’s hand pulled him to a halt that he realized they’d been moving. 

“Sit down,” she ordered, and Lucas sank onto the stool someone had left outside a shabby-looking tent. Mistress West crouched down in front of him, taking his chin in hard fingers, and turned his head back and forth to look into his eyes. 

“You’ll do,” she said, releasing him. “But I wouldn’t advise going after her again. My little counterspell’s finished.” 

Lucas exhaled, and managed to nod. Mistress West straightened. “Did you find what you wanted?” she asked, her tone curious and a little contemptuous. 

“Yeah.” None of it was _good_ , but he had his answers. Lucas stared at the hem of her skirt and swallowed again at the burn in his throat. 

Mistress West chuckled, low and slightly cruel. “If only we were all so fortunate.” 

The hem disappeared from his gaze, but Lucas didn’t lift his head. 

_It can’t all have been Dorothy’s spell._ Because when they’d met, she’d had no powers at all. He was hers already by the time Mistress East died. 

...Or had she truly been powerless? 

_Only a witch can kill a witch._

Lucas squeezed his eyes shut. She could have enspelled him at almost any point, maybe when he first saw her in that crimson gown, maybe the spell was woven into her mysterious music; maybe it was her kiss, or the touch of her hands when she’d fed him. And he couldn’t remember it, but he wouldn’t have fought. Not her Lucas. 

It had saved her, in the end, but not him. Not Roan. All that he’d once valued was gone. 

_It’s no more than you deserve,_ he told himself. _You should have died on that pole._

He pushed to his feet and made his way to the barracks-tent, but it wasn’t until he was stretched out in his bedroll that it occurred to Lucas to wonder if Dorothy’s spell was still on him. 

_It doesn’t matter. She’s gone_. Back to Kansas, where she’d wanted so desperately to go--a desire stronger than love or fear. 

It was odd. Roan had sworn oaths to the Wizard, to Glinda, meant only to be broken by death. Lucas had offered his heart in the same fashion, even if no words were spoken. 

He still went by one name, but in a sense _both_ men were dead. _And yet I live. Three times a traitor, but I live._

It was getting to be a _habit_. 

Lucas groaned, and rolled over. 

_Shut up and sleep_. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late; my update schedule is about to go out the window, since I have no more finished chapters. 
> 
> I would like to note that almost no one in this show is a reliable narrator, up to and including Dorothy herself...

She couldn’t sleep.

Dorothy stared at the roof of her little pavilion. It was as sparsely furnished as Mother South’s, with just a foldable cot and a few blankets behind the dividing hanging; she’d rolled one up for a pillow, but it wasn’t helping.

But it was more than most people had. The camp had far more people than tents, and the only reason Dorothy had one for her exclusive use was because she was an honored guest.

It didn’t feel quite real, being back in Oz. Meeting Glinda and West again-- _Morwen_ , Dorothy reminded herself--had been a strain, and after that she’d been shown to her tent and given a sketchy supper. Toto had disappeared, back to Leith, Dorothy hoped; and the page sent for Jane had returned alone, saying that she couldn’t leave the medical tent just then.

It had all been rather anticlimactic.

Dorothy tucked one arm beneath her head and lifted the other hand, looking at the bare outline that was all she could see in the darkness.

Nothing happened.

She sighed. So far she’d only been able to make the gauntlets appear when she was in the throes of some strong emotion--panic, anger, hate. What if she couldn’t learn to call them on command?

 _I suppose we could just have Glinda insult me until they do._ Dorothy snorted and let her hand drop. Mother South seemed convinced that she was a necessary part of fighting the Beast Forever, but Dorothy wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be better for her to pass the gauntlets to someone else--one of Glinda’s up-and-coming witches, maybe. _At least she thinks I **can** give them to someone, instead of having to die first. _

Finally she gave up, and sat up carefully, pulling on her pants and shoes before exiting the tent as quietly as she could. The camp was quiet but not silent; there were snores, murmurs, the occasional hushed voice, the crackle of the torches used to light the major paths between the tents. _It might not even be that late. I have no idea what time it really is._

She headed back to where she thought the camp’s entrance was. _If I can’t sleep, I might as well stretch my legs._ She’d be tired in the morning, but any hospital nurse knew how to survive a triple shift; missing a few hours of sleep was nothing.

The camp had guards, but the privies were outside its boundaries, and the guard Dorothy passed merely nodded when she gave him a little wave. _There is no enemy now but the Beast Forever,_ Mother South had explained. _The guards protect us from ourselves._

That made a depressing kind of sense. Dorothy stuck her hands in her jacket pockets and wandered out in the general direction of the privies, but then drifted away to head up the same hill on which they’d arrived earlier in the day.

Only one of the moons was up, the smaller one, and it looked almost like home--like one of those atmospheric distortions when the Moon looked larger than it was, Dorothy thought.

She reached the top of the hill and realized that there wasn’t that much to see besides the flickering lights of the camp; everything else was pretty much lost in shadow, with just the barest glints here and there from reflected moonlight.

The stars were amazing, though.

Dorothy sat down in the grass, sparing a grimace for its clamminess, and leaned back to look up. Growing up in the country, she had learned the stars almost unconsciously, and if she had needed more proof that she was far from home, she had it. The patterns arcing above her were completely unfamiliar.

There in the dark, she had to let in the thought that she’d been holding at bay all day.

_Lucas._

She had very carefully avoided asking about him. Glinda was the only one likely to have gone looking for him, anyway, and Dorothy suspected the witch would bite out her own tongue before she’d give Dorothy any hints concerning him.

_Besides, what exactly would I say? “There’s this guy, who might go by Roan or maybe Lucas, who tried to kill me so I left him hung up for the crows. Did anybody find his corpse? Oh, by the way, he’s secretly married to the Witch of the North.”_

Yeah, that would go over well. Dorothy shook her head and combed her fingers through the long grass.

It had been...not _easy_ , exactly, to put him away when she’d returned to Kansas, but in a sense he was part of Oz, which had quickly begun to feel like a dream. Bright and unreal and out of reach. Even if he was the most real part of it.

There in the darkness, under the alien stars, she let herself remember. His sad, earnest eyes--the texture of his rough beard against her palms--the dusty warm smell of him--the way he said her name, and smiled, as if she were the only other person in his world.

_I guess, for a little while, I was._

It was hard to untangle those days from one another, to separate out the forces driving her. Fear and curiosity and determination had put her on the road to Emerald City, that and necessity; but it seemed as though every step had divided her, first with Lucas and his wounds and his devotion, and then with Sylvie in her helplessness. They’d pulled her into wider concerns, until she was stumbling around trying to stop a war, no longer sure if it was for the silent little girl’s sake or for her own desperate need to get back home.

Lucas had accused her of fearing loss, and he’d been right. _But that wasn’t the only reason._ Dorothy sighed, and traced an aimless pattern in the stars with one finger. Her aunt and uncle weren’t young any more, and between Henry’s arthritis and Em’s overdoing things, they were both at risk. Dorothy knew she couldn’t have just let them _lose_ her in such a brutal, inexplicable fashion.

_And look where it got me._

She made herself remember that part, too. Roan’s hands tight around her throat, his furious rejection, his pleading voice. The stomach-churning _ease_ of sinking that knife into his side.

She’d tried to miss anything truly vital, but between lack of oxygen hindering her aim and the length of the blade, Dorothy figured that sepsis had killed him if the blood loss hadn’t done the trick.

It still felt so very _strange._ Not fighting back; as much as she’d-- _cared for_ Lucas, he _had_ tried to kill her. Like the death of the Witch of the East, she could feel sick about stabbing him, but not guilty.

_But what the **fuck** was I doing, putting him back up like that?_

All she could think of was that it had made sense at the time, lost in rage and regret as she had been. Now it seemed bizarre and cruel.

 _That_ she could feel guilty about.

Her neck was beginning to hurt. Dorothy lay back in the grass, ignoring the dew, and wondered with a small part of her mind if Oz ever had meteor showers. And if wishing on a shooting star actually _worked_ here.

_Lucas…_

She’d never been in love before, and Dorothy still wasn’t sure that what she’d felt for Lucas was love. But it was still deep enough to make her chest tighten and her eyes burn, because he had been something precious, and he was gone.

She didn’t cry. But she let the grass cradle her for a very long time before she got up to go back to her tent.

* * *

 

In the morning Dorothy was brought warm wash water and a less than filling breakfast by another of Glinda’s girls. Dorothy stopped her before she could leave. “Hey, uh--what’s your name?”

The witchling had skin as pale as Glinda’s and dead-straight blonde hair, and she was, Dorothy guessed, probably about sixteen or so. She gave Dorothy a wary look. “Susan.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dorothy smiled. “Do you--can you tell me anything about the girl named Leith?”

Susan looked her up and down, obviously skeptical, but finally spoke. “She’s a page today.”

That sounded...safe. Dorothy let out a breath. “Is there any chance I could, um, see her? Just for a few minutes.” Leith had chosen to stay behind, and really Dorothy couldn’t blame her, but she still wanted to _know_ Leith was okay.

“You’d have to ask Mistress North.” Whatever exalted guest-status Dorothy possessed clearly cut no ice with the girl.

Dorothy bit back a sigh. “Okay. Then where do I find the medical tent?”

Susan frowned slightly. “It’s in the south end of camp. Are you sick, mistress?”

Dorothy shook her head. “No, I just want to find someone who works there.”

“It’s got an orange pennant. Will that be all?”

Dorothy nodded again, and Susan pulled aside the tent flap and disappeared. Dorothy watched her go, and wondered why everybody but Mother South seemed to dislike her on sight.

She washed and ate, and left the tray on her little folding table because she had absolutely no idea where the kitchen tent was either, and stepped outside.

The sky was no longer clear; low dark clouds covered it, and Dorothy could smell rain coming, though fortunately the atmosphere lacked the heaviness of an approaching storm. Probably just a good soaking rain, she thought, the sort of thing farmers loved in its proper season, but as she looked around at the tents Dorothy realized that this was probably not the proper season--at least for several hundred people living outdoors.

 _This place’ll be a sea of mud in no time._ She winced. _I hope nobody asks me to settle the weather this time…_

Maybe she should have brought an umbrella. Dorothy turned up the collar of her jacket, and started looking for the medical tent.

It wasn’t that hard to find. The pennant was raised on a very tall pole, presumably to make it easier to locate in case of emergency, and it was also the biggest pavilion Dorothy had seen so far. She didn’t see many people as she made her way to it, but the tent itself had traffic coming and going--mostly older women, and some girls in the dun smocks of Glinda’s crew.

When Dorothy slipped inside, she immediately recognized the atmosphere. It smelled of something sharp and herbal instead of sharp disinfectant, but the rows of low cots felt enough like the hospital’s ER to put her instincts on alert. Most of them were occupied.

A large part of her wanted to find some disposable gloves and pitch in, but it wasn’t her ward, and anyway Mother South had pointed out that Dorothy’s purpose in Oz wasn’t to care for the sick--it was to help stop the infection at its source.

A round, elderly woman bustled up, shaking some remnant of blue light from her fingers, and Dorothy realized that she too must be a witch though her clothes were dark and shapeless. “Can I help you?” she asked, looking Dorothy over even more thoroughly than Susan had.

“I’m looking for Jane, is she here?” Hangings like that in Mother South’s tent kept part of the pavilion out of view.

“Hm, the mechanist? Yes, she’s here.” The witch squinted at Dorothy, then gestured. “Back that way, on the right.”

“Thanks.” Dorothy followed her point, down the aisle on the right side of the tent and past the hanging curtain.

There were more cots there, most of them occupied; some of the patients were moving restlessly, but most were still, and Dorothy assumed that they had the illness brought by the Beast Forever (though one man had a splinted leg and a very bored expression). She made her way past them and an additional curtain before finding what looked like a supplies room; it held stacks of crates and sacks, and a small table and a stool.

Bent over the table, working on what looked like some kind of small instrument, was the brown-haired woman who’d sent Dorothy home. “I’m not finished, Thio,” she said as Dorothy entered. “This is going to take some time.”

Dorothy swallowed against her dry throat and managed to squeeze out a word. “Jane?”

The moving fingers slowed and stopped, and Jane’s head rose, glasses flashing back light from the lamp hung over her table. “Dorothy?”

Dorothy realized that she had no idea what to actually _say_ to the woman. Jane stood slowly, her face a mix of delight and anguish. “You came back...oh, I so hoped you’d tell her _no_ …”

“I...people were dying,” Dorothy said awkwardly.

Jane nodded, hands clasping one another. “The Beast Forever,” she said. “It’s brought a plague--fortunately it’s not immediately deadly or even all that contagious, but still.”

“Yeah.” Dorothy couldn’t look away from her. She couldn’t see any of her own features in Jane’s face, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. “I’m, um, still learning about all this.”

“There’s a lot to learn.” Jane was staring back hungrily. “The Witch of the South said that you inherited some of Mistress East’s powers--is that true?”

“Yeah.” Dorothy flexed her hands, half-unconsciously. “Kind of. I’m still working on those, too.”

Jane pressed her hands to her lips. “You’re so beautiful,” she said softly. “Strong and beautiful and bright.” A tear crept out from under her lenses. “Roberto would have been so _proud._ ”

Dorothy swallowed against the sudden knot in her throat. She’d wondered about her father too, of _course_ she’d wondered, but she’d had nothing to build an image on. Aunt Em’s sparse description of Karen Chapman had been Dorothy’s focus all those years. “What--what was he like?”

Jane smiled wistfully. “A good scientist. A kind man.” She shook her head. “He was so excited when we found out I was pregnant. But he died a few weeks later and--well.”

There were so many questions; for every answer Dorothy got, she seemed to think of more she wanted to know. But the most important one burst out of her without her permission. “Jane, if you’re my mother, why didn’t you come _with_ me?”

Jane sighed, and lifted her hands as if to touch Dorothy, before dropping them again. “I had to make sure the machine was destroyed, or they’d just come after you again. You weren’t truly safe as long as it was in working order.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t matter.” Dorothy folded her arms.

“So I see.” Jane pushed her glasses up her nose. “And I _am_ your mother. I know it might be hard for you to believe, but--”

Dorothy jerked one shoulder in a shrug. “People in Oz lie to me a lot. Even you,” she pointed out.

Jane grimaced. “Yes--I’m sorry, but I was trying to keep you _safe_.”

“Why didn’t you just come with me the _first_ time, instead of having Karen take me instead?” It had been bugging Dorothy since Jane had first made her claim.

“I couldn’t get away. Frank watched me much more closely. Oh, it made him _furious_ when she escaped with you!” Jane’s smile was sad. “You know, strange as it may seem, I think Frank loved you, in his own way.”

Dorothy snorted. “Sure, that’s why he sent me after the Witch of the North.”

Jane turned up one hand. “Well, you became a threat. That’s what happens when people from our world come here, you know. We disrupt things just by existing.”

 _Nothing good ever comes from the sky._ Did that mean that others had come before, like Mother South had hinted? Dorothy pushed the idea aside for the moment. “Did you ever try to escape again?”

Jane sighed. “A few times. But Frank had the vortex machine locked up tight, and in the end I gave up--moved to Ev and set up shop there.” She waved at the device on the table. “I work with mechanics most of the time--devices, not car repairmen--and there’s some overlap with medicine. Which is why I’m here, I suppose, not left to rot in a dungeon in Emerald City.”

She twitched her skirt aside, so Dorothy could see the cuff on her ankle. A coil of chain led from it to one of the tent pegs. “I’m useful, you see.”

“What--why’d they do that?” A pulse of horror ran through Dorothy, an echo of her dream of Lucas’ resurrection, but it shaded rapidly towards anger.

“I came here with the Wizard; I helped build his machine. Well, actually I built most of it myself, but that was a state secret.” Jane shrugged. “And I think the Witch of the South wanted me as bait as well. For you.”

“It worked,” Dorothy said, though finding Jane had only been part of why she’d come back. _And I’m gonna have something to say to Mother South._

She dropped to a crouch for a better look at Jane’s shackle; it encircled her booted ankle neatly, and there didn’t seem to be any kind of lock attached. “Magic?”

“I’m afraid so.” Jane sounded resigned, but Dorothy didn’t look up, instead reaching deeper into the anger that was burning in her chest.

The metal suddenly cradling her hand was warm. Dorothy extended one gemmed finger and touched the shackle, and the two halves bent away from one another as if they had never been one solid. The whole thing slid to the ground with a faint clank.

When Dorothy straightened, Jane was staring at her, mouth open. Dorothy felt the anger lessen, and with it went the gauntlet, melting away into nothing.

“My word,” Jane said at after a moment. “The Witch of the South really was telling the truth.”

“I’m not sure I believe it myself,” Dorothy admitted, flexing her hand again. It always seemed as if there should be more sensation, but once the gauntlets disappeared there wasn’t even a sense memory.

“Mistress?”

Dorothy turned. Back where she’d come in stood a witchling, the same one from Mother South’s tent the day before. “Queen Ozma requests your presence. I’m to escort you.”

Dorothy wondered wryly how much of that was “requests” and how much was “requires”. “Sure, hold on a sec.”

She turned back to Jane. “Do you want to leave the camp? If anybody tries to stop you I can--”

Jane shook her head, and lifted a hand to cup Dorothy’s face. “I’m grateful, but I can’t leave.”

Dorothy had to swallow again at the touch. She wanted Jane to be telling the truth, she wanted it so _much_ … “Why not?”

Jane hesitated, then dropped her hand. “I’ll show you.”

She walked to the next hanging divider, just a few feet away, and pulled it back. There on another cot lay a teenager with curly brown hair and a pointed face, wrapped in blankets. His skin was deathly pale, and Dorothy could see stained bandages where the blankets didn’t cover him.

“Jack’s still in a coma,” Jane explained softly. “I think the grafts have taken, but he needs constant monitoring.”

 _Oh._ Dorothy blinked, wondering how Oz’s primitive medicine managed to do grafts. _Must be magic._

Behind them, the witchling cleared her throat politely. “I’d better go,” Dorothy said. “But I’ll come back when I can.”

Jane smiled, and startled Dorothy by reaching out to hug her. It took Dorothy a moment to react, but then she returned it, feeling sudden tears stinging her eyes at the tight wrap of Jane’s arms.

“It’s selfish of me, but I’m _glad_ you’re here,” Jane whispered in Dorothy’s ear. “Be careful, okay?”

Dorothy nodded, and made herself let go.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone waiting for a reunion...my apologies. :P 
> 
> Also, as Zenobia has pointed out, I mistakenly identified Mother South as East Asian when I meant South Asian. I'll change that line when I get a chance. However, if your headcanon has her as East Asian, by all means carry on!

It was raining, a constant patter that darkened the sky and put everyone in a bad mood. Lucas listened to the grumbles and complaints of Ozma’s morning court session, and tried not to think about damp bedrolls and extinguished cooking fires. He’d lived rough on occasion while serving in the Wizard’s guard, but experience didn’t mean he _liked_ wet socks.

Ozma was currently talking with a couple of the older witches, but when one of the younger ones came in, clearly on page-duty, and whispered to her, Ozma dismissed the women courteously. “I have an appointment with Mother South,” she said, beckoning to Lucas. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, your Highness,” he said obediently, escorting her across the tent. The Queen was dressed in practical skirts and a warm jacket, though she still wore her crown, and Lucas had been able to add an extra shirt to his outfit, but he still braced a little as they passed out into the chilly day, ready for the touch of cold rain.

It never reached his skin. Lucas looked up in surprise, but it _was_ still raining; but when he glanced at Ozma, she was holding up one hand, fingers spread, and the rain was simply...elsewhere. Falling all around them, but not _on_ them.

He stared. “You can stop the rain?” he asked at last, and Ozma blinked, looking a little surprised herself.

“I guess?” she said. “Morwen never mentioned _this._ ”

Lucas had no idea what she meant by that, but he wasn’t going to ask. Ozma shook herself and started towards the south end of the camp, and as they went the rain continued to avoid them.

Lucas had not yet seen Mother South, though he’d heard of her miraculous reappearance before he’d even reached Emerald City. The pavilion flying the yellow pennant was the same size as Glinda’s, but when they pushed back the flap Lucas saw it was much more sparsely furnished; there were only a few benches, and a table with a tea set.

The little woman seated behind the table rose as they entered, inclining her head to Ozma, who smiled widely. “Mother South, I’m glad you’re back safely.”

Mother South smiled back. She would barely come up to his collarbone, Lucas estimated, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking she was harmless. This was Oz’s oldest and most powerful witch, mother to the two remaining cardinal witches. Even they had to respect her.

“I’m glad to be back, your Highness,” she said, taking the hand Ozma held out and squeezing it gently. “Fortunately for us all, I was able to persuade her to return.”

“That’s what I was told, yeah.” Ozma craned her neck to look past Mother South. “Is she here?”

“She’s coming.” Mother South let her hand go and reached for the teapot. “In fact, I think she’s just arriving.”

Lucas had no idea who this _she_ was that they were talking about, but it wasn’t his business--guarding the Queen was. So when the tent flap opened and a child’s voice piped “The Mistress of the Eastern Wood, pro tem,” he was turning to look over the visitor before his mind registered the words of the announcement.

It was Dorothy.

The sensation wasn’t unlike the breaking of Glinda’s spell and the restoration of his memories--a crashing avalanche that scattered thought. She looked just as he remembered her, small and fierce and beautiful, and Lucas wanted to throw himself down and hide his face, beg her forgiveness--

Dorothy was frozen in the frame of the entrance, staring at him, and only the duty of protecting Ozma kept Lucas from dropping to his knees.

_“Lucas?”_

The word was angry and disbelieving, a pain-filled sound that made his chest ache. He meant to keep his gaze on the ground in front of her, but the sound of his name made him look up.

Their eyes met.

Rage burst through him, horrifyingly familiar. Lucas felt it jerk him to life as though he were on a leash, and his hand fell to the haft of his knife, yanking it free of its sheath. _Kill her_ filled his brain, a shout of hate and fury, and his tiny anguished wail of protest was all but drowned beneath it.

His body lurched forward, pushing past a startled Ozma. He would shove the knife into the Kansas woman’s heart, or wrench her head back by the hair and slice open her throat, and in the gush of blood he would be _free_ \--

Someone was shouting, but the words were incomprehensible. Dorothy’s eyes widened as he plunged towards her, blade raised high. She was so small, so defenseless, so precious, and he was going to _kill_ her, he _had_ to kill her--

Her hands snapped up--a feeble defense, he could brush them aside with one arm, and reached out to do it. _No!_ he screamed silently. _No--Dorothy!_

Sudden light spat from her palms, blinding him with brilliant blue. All sensation fled from his limbs, and Lucas pitched forward, sliding to the ground in an ignominious heap.

He could feel the damp canvas pressed against his cheek, and his heart pounding in his chest, but not the hilt of the knife still gripped in his hand, even though he could see his fist a foot from his face; the knuckles were white.

Most of Lucas was struggling against the paralysis, desperate to slay the woman who had stolen his soul. But the one small part that was still _him_ was lost in anguished relief.

The shouts and babble subsided, and his ringing ears picked out words--the Queen, angry and shocked--“I don’t know--he’s never done this--”

A smooth voice he didn’t recognize. “Nicely done, my dear.”

And Dorothy, hoarse and horrified. “Lucas--”

Feet appeared in his vision where his cheek was pressed to the canvas underfoot, but no sound came from his tightened throat, neither curse nor terrified plea.

A sharp toe nudged his ribs--Ozma. “I’ll have him shackled. Until we decide what to do with him. Unless you want his life.”

 _“No.”_ The word was quick. “I don’t want--I thought he was _dead_.”

More footsteps, and the oddest shoes he’d ever seen appeared in Lucas’ vision; they had to be Dorothy’s. “Lucas?” she said again, this time sad, and the fury in him raged to pull her down and crush the life from her. The rest wanted to scream at her to get _away._

 _Eamonn should have left you on that pole,_ said the quiet voice within.

He could only breathe, and wait.

* * *

 

 _He’s alive._ The whirling thoughts in her head wouldn’t settle, but that was the main one, and Dorothy clung to it despite all the chaos. _I didn’t kill him after all._

Her gut was a churning mix of relief, anger, and residual terror--at least, that was what she could identify while her system tried to process the adrenaline surge. Dorothy flexed her gold-laden fingers and approached Lucas’ awkwardly crumpled form cautiously.

“What did you _do_ to him?” Tip asked in fascination. Some part of Dorothy noticed that he--she?--was wearing a very obvious crown, but most of her own attention was still on--was he Lucas, now, or Roan?

“Shut off most of his voluntary nervous system,” Dorothy said absently. “He’s breathing, right?”

Tip made a puzzled sound. Lucas _was_ breathing, Dorothy saw with relief, and his eyelids flickered, so she knew he could close them if he had to.

“I don’t understand,” Tip said, sounding less angry than hurt. “He’s--I never expected him to do something like this.”

Dorothy winced. “It’s a long story,” she said, staying out of range of _Roan’s_ arms just in case. _He tried to kill me again. It’s Roan._

“What is your will?” Mother South asked; she hadn’t moved the whole time, or even looked alarmed, and Dorothy wondered a little sourly if the whole thing was somehow a test on Mother South’s part, though it didn’t seem likely.

“I don’t really know.” The gauntlets were lingering this time, maybe because whatever Dorothy had done to Roan was still going; she could _feel_ it, a subtle electric hum in her palms.

Tip turned to her, face gone cold and grave. “He attacked a Cardinal Witch. His life is forfeit, yours to dispose of.”

Dorothy rubbed her temple, trying to calm down. “Look, I don’t _know_. I don’t want him killed,” she added hastily. “Can we--is there someplace we can put him until I can think about it?”

Tip’s face twisted in thought. “We don’t have a dungeon as such, but there’s a tent for troublemakers. That should do.”

So Dorothy watched as two burly soldiers stripped Roan of his weapons and carried him out. He was neither limp nor rigid, but stiff enough that they had to pry the knife from his hand; he groaned when they did, and Dorothy hoped they hadn’t broken a finger or something.

She wanted to follow and at least lift the weird paralysis once they had him secured, but apparently the meeting was going forward. Mother South took her place at the little tea table again, and Dorothy made herself sit opposite Tip, who eyed her uncertainly.

Mother South poured tea and handed around the cups, but the moment she set down the pot a witchling hurried into the tent and murmured something to her that Dorothy couldn’t catch. Mother South sighed.

“Excuse me, your Majesty, I’m needed elsewhere.” It was a statement, but Mother South waited for Tip’s nod before rising. She patted Dorothy’s shoulder as she passed. “Drink your tea, my dear, and get acquainted. I’ll be back shortly.”

She followed the witchling out, leaving Dorothy to wrap her hands around warm ceramic and stare at Tip across the table. Tip stared back, obviously having no more idea what to say than Dorothy did.

Finally Dorothy let words spill out, undiplomatic and completely lacking in formality. “So you’re the queen of Oz now?”

Tip grimaced, lifting a hand to prod at the crown; it did look heavy. “Yeah. Seems I was the missing heir all along.”

Dorothy gestured. “So how did you--um.”

This won an eyeroll. “A spell. Old Mombi never told me anything, but--apparently this is what I started out as.”

The disgust was palpable. Dorothy sympathized; she could see how discovering you were really a girl could be something of a shock. She took a sip of tea, forcing her thoughts away from Roan as they tried to circle back.

Tip gave her a wary look. “It’s--people don’t know.” A shrug. “Morwen wouldn’t even let me tell Mother South. She says I need to be the heir for a while before I change back, so people don’t lose faith in me.”

“That makes sense.” Dorothy took another sip; the stuff was strong, but fairly tasty, a lot like Darjeeling.

Tip-- _Ozma,_ Dorothy thought, _better remember so you don’t give it away--_ set down her own cup untasted. “I want to thank you for coming back,” she said, intense and a little bit grim. “I don’t think we have a chance of stopping the Beast Forever without you.”

Dorothy twitched one shoulder, feeling helpless. “I hope I can actually _do_ something. It’s not like I know what I’m doing here.”

Ozma grinned, sudden and charming. “Neither do I.”

And suddenly they were both laughing a little, mostly out of relief, Dorothy thought. Ozma turned up one hand. “You’ve got Mistress East’s gauntlets, but I have her spells--Mistress West gave them to me.”

She frowned again. “That’s a secret too, by the way. I’m only telling you because you’ve got the other half.”

“Yeah.” Dorothy flexed one hand; the gauntlets had disappeared, but she could still feel the hum of whatever she’d placed on Roan. “As far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to them.”

Ozma snickered. “Trust me, I know what you mean.”

Dorothy smiled, then sobered. “What’s the Beast Forever _like?_ I never understood how a _flood_ could be a beast.”

“I dunno either. This time it’s a--creature.” Ozma shuddered. “Looks like a man, except _enormous_ , with big bat-wings. And _nasty_.”

She poked at her teacup. “It’s perched on top of the highest tower of the palace, and its shadow keeps growing. All the witches think it will cover the entire country if we can’t stop it.”

Dorothy nodded. “And it makes people sick?”

“People, animals, crops, everything.” Ozma sighed. “They don’t die, at least right off, but they don’t get _better_ , either. The witches can heal them, sometimes, but it’s very hard. We’ve lost five already; they just don’t have the strength.”

Dorothy blanched, remembering the mad children in Glinda’s tower. Ozma waved a hand. “Anyway. Mistress North is working on the archives, and hopefully we’ll have a solution soon. Too bad the Wizard murdered his councilors.”

 _Yikes._ Dorothy hid a wince, though she had to admit she could picture Frank being unstable enough to do such a thing. _Classic paranoia._

The tent flap opened to allow Mother South back inside, and with her return the talk turned to strategy and discussions of the layout of Emerald City, and Dorothy murmured agreement and tried, again, not to think about Roan.

* * *

 

It was past lunchtime before Dorothy was free to find the jail-tent. It wasn’t even a makeshift dungeon; it had one guard and one other prisoner, a surly-looking woman whose neck was encircled by a band similar to the one that had bound Lucas in his chair, all those weeks before. Hers, though, was attached to a chain that led to a heavy iron on the grassy ground; she was actually sitting on the weight.

Roan was bound the same way, but he was lying still on the ground, still paralyzed. Dorothy walked slowly across the wilting grass, trying to maintain her composure. The guard and the other prisoner stared at her, but when Dorothy looked at them they turned away hastily, as if her gaze could hurt them somehow.

Dorothy recalled what the Witch of the East had done with just a gesture, and shuddered. _I can’t blame them._

She crouched down next to Roan’s supine figure. He was weaponless now, but Dorothy remembered what his strong hands could do, and swallowed against a ghost of pain.

Roan’s head was facing away from her, left that way when he’d been set down. Dorothy reached over and took his chin gingerly between her fingers, turning his head until she could see his eyes.

They were straining wide, though with fury or desperation or fear she couldn’t tell. Dorothy gulped, and forced words past the lump in her throat. “Roan--I’m sorry.”

He blinked, but she had no idea if he was really hearing her. “I don’t know why I--I did that to you, back at the farmhouse, but I shouldn’t have, it was cruel.” Dorothy let him go, sitting back a little and trying to organize her thoughts. “Look, I’m not going to have you executed. But I don’t know _what_ to do yet, so I’m just--you’ll have to stay here for now, okay?”

He made a low noise, a sort of gurgle, and Dorothy was glad he couldn’t form words, because she didn’t think she could stand to hear him beg again. She pushed to her feet and backed towards the tent’s entrance before raising her hands. _I hope I can actually do this--_

The humming tension was still there. Dorothy closed her eyes and mentally felt along it, trying to sense how to stop it--

\--And it snapped, raveling apart and dissipating. Roan went limp on the grass, and coughed, lifting a hand to the band around his neck.

Dorothy let out her breath in relief, then caught it back as he struggled to roll over, gaze fixing on her. _“Dorothy--”_ he croaked.

She broke, and fled.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had to restart this chapter twice before it would cooperate.

Prison was...boring.

Lucas sat on the faded grass and tried not to pick at the cuff on his ankle, which was just a bit too tight. The weight he was chained to was cool against his back, and the ground was only a little damp. The only other person in the jail tent now was the guard, who was ignoring him with great purpose; Lucas’ fellow-prisoner had been released that morning.

It wasn’t that he didn’t fear for his life, but this wasn’t like the last time--there was no sign of torture implements, for one thing. But there was absolutely nothing to do, unless he wanted to count blades of grass, and the day stretched on interminably. The bread and water of breakfast was hours behind him, and the pot in the corner forbade even the interest of a trip to the latrine.

Lucas wasn’t sure why no one had simply removed his head yet, no matter what Dorothy had said. _But the Queen did say it was up to her._

The weird desire to kill Dorothy had--stopped. Very abruptly. And not resumed when she’d come to see him, though that might have been an after-effect of her paralyzing spell. Lucas freely admitted that he knew very little about how magic worked, even after years of Glinda’s company.

He seemed to be back where he started, bewildered and guilty and helpless. _Another habit?_ Lucas was afraid, now, to see Dorothy again, for fear that the anger would take him once more, and he might succeed at last.

Execution might be a _relief_. _At least I’d never hurt her again--_

Metal tinkled, and Lucas looked up in surprise as the tent flap opened to admit a small drab figure and a large tan-and-black one. The guard started forward at the sight of Leith and Toto. “You’re not--” he began, but the combination of glares from both parties cut off his words.

Leith pointed at the guard. Lucas didn’t _think_ she used a spell, but perhaps her drab witchling smock was enough; the man cleared his throat and backed up to his former position. Toto sat down to watch him, and Leith nodded in satisfaction.

Then she robbed Lucas of words entirely by climbing into his lap and sliding her arms as far around him as they could reach.

His throat knotted. Lucas cradled her close, looking down at the small head pressed to his chest, and stroked the fine hair gently. He didn’t know what had brought her to see him, but her hug was bringing him nearer to breaking than even Dorothy’s last retreat.

It was a long time before Leith pulled back enough to look up at him. Lucas cleared his throat. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, mind,” he managed, “but this won’t please Glinda.”

Leith gave him a tiny smirk. “Mother rules now,” she said softly.

That was...encouraging. Lucas opened his mouth to ask how Leith liked Mother South, but the words dried up as Leith took a deep breath and the world _moved_.

When it stopped, they were sitting in a meadow full of sunlight, with no sight of the camp or the rolling hills around it--just trees fringing the open space of green. Lucas stared around, gaping, and tightened his hold on Leith. His palms itched for a weapon, any weapon, to defend her against whatever unknown had brought them there.

A little ways away, Toto rose to his feet, shook himself, and began nosing casually around. Leith squirmed in Lucas’ hold, and he loosened his grip.

She looked around, and gave another satisfied nod before wriggling free and standing. She pointed at Lucas. _“Stay,”_ she said, and disappeared in a gust of wind.

Toto barked, a disgruntled sound. Lucas stared at the space Leith had just occupied, then pinched his eyes shut and rubbed a hand through his hair. _Witches._

Since whatever had brought them there--Leith?--had also brought the iron weight attached to Lucas’ ankle, he could hardly disobey her anyway. Toto whuffled past, nose to the ground, and paused to mark a clump of wildflowers.

 _And what if she doesn’t come back?_ Lucas supposed he could use his jacket as a makeshift rope and try to pull the weight, but he would go nowhere quickly. He looked around, trying to estimate the distance to the nearest trees, and realized that the place looked vaguely familiar. There were no landmarks in sight, but Lucas suspected that he and Dorothy and Leith had traveled through the area on their way north, or at least someplace very like it.

“I suppose she wouldn’t abandon _you_ ,” he remarked to Toto, who flicked one ear back but didn’t pause his investigations.

Lucas sighed, and lay back in the long meadow grass. At least out here he could enjoy the sunlight.

* * *

 

Dorothy wandered through the camp, trying not to get in anyone’s way.

She’d spent another restless night, plagued by dreams where she tried desperately to get somewhere or do some task but was endlessly diverted or distracted, and had woken almost as tired as when she’d lain down.

Glinda’s researchers were still at work, it seemed, and as a consequence Dorothy had nothing to do. She’d stopped by the medical tent, but the witch on duty had informed her brusquely that Jane was busy, and equally brusquely turned down Dorothy’s tentative offer to help with the sick.

The tent village was laid out on semi-regular lines, but it was easy to get turned around, and Dorothy used it as a distraction, spending half her time chewing over the problem of Roan, and the other half looking for Leith. It was amazing, and a little disturbing, how many small witchlings there were in the camp, most of them intent on errands and none inclined to talk to her.

Dorothy sighed, and stopped to re-tie a loosened shoelace. _At least it’s not raining today._ The sky was gray and the air was chilly, and she was glad she’d brought waterproof shoes, but she no longer needed an umbrella.

She straightened, and a small hand slid into hers, warm against her chilly fingers. Dorothy started and looked down.

Leith looked solemnly back up at her, and Dorothy let out a huge breath of relief. “Oh, you’re _okay_...I was so worried!”

Leith gave her a small smile, and Dorothy dropped to her knees so she could hug the girl. The feel of her thin arms around Dorothy’s neck released something that had been held tight too long, and Dorothy squeezed her eyes closed against the sting of tears.

After a long moment Leith pulled back. Dorothy searched her face; the girl looked well-cared-for, at least, her hair smoothly combed and her cheeks round. “Is Glinda treating you all right? I’ve been looking for you, but--”

Leith shook her head, looking impatient, and then gripped Dorothy’s shoulders and took a deep breath.

It was as though they were still, and the world moved past them, the mild vertigo of standing next to a train that was picking up speed. Dorothy swayed slightly, then looked around. “...What?”

They had gone from a chilly gray day to a warm and sunny one, from tents to a field of grass. Dorothy looked back to Leith. “Did you do this?”

Leith was a little pale, but she was smiling as she nodded. Dorothy bit her lip. “Sweetie, I’m glad you’re learning to use your powers, but--”

Leith’s hand landed on her mouth. “Come,” she said, and stepped back, obviously waiting for Dorothy to get up.

There weren’t even grass stains on the knees of her jeans. Dorothy rose carefully; the grass was halfway to her knees and turning golden with autumn, and a ways off she could see the dark back and high-held tail of Toto plowing through it on some doggy business. The sight reassured her somewhat. _If he’s here, it’s not just some random location._

She took Leith’s hand, and let herself be guided further into the meadow. “Where are we going?”

Leith pointed ahead. Dorothy couldn’t see anything special in that direction, but after about another few steps there was motion in the grass about five yards ahead of them, and a figure sat up.

Instinct had Dorothy shoving Leith behind her at the familiar sight. Roan looked singularly harmless as he blinked at them and pulled a grass stem from his hair, but Dorothy wasn’t going to trust appearances. “How’d he get _here?_ Leith, stay here.”

Dorothy took a step forward, curling her hands into fists and trying frantically to summon the gauntlets. She didn’t _think_ Roan would attack Leith, but if he made the least little move in the girl’s direction she had to be able to take him out--

Leith made a disgusted noise and darted forward, evading Dorothy’s grab easily. Roan looked from her to Dorothy, and she could _see_ the color draining from his face. He bolted to his feet and took a step backwards. “Dorothy--I’m--stay away, please, stay away!”

He looked so terrified that part of her just wanted to comfort him, but instead Dorothy reached again for Leith. Roan took another step backwards, and abruptly fell on his ass in a move so perfectly slapstick that Dorothy might have laughed if she weren’t so frightened herself.

Leith stamped her foot...and the ground trembled beneath them. _“Stop!”_

Dorothy froze, a chill seizing her at the display of power; Roan pushed himself up to a sitting position, still sheet-white. Leith glared at them both, and the trembling died away.

“Leith, come back,” Dorothy said carefully. “He’s...he’s dangerous, sweetie.”

“I am,” Roan agreed, his voice thready. “Go to Dorothy.”

Leith’s expression shifted from anger to exasperation. “Wait,” she said firmly, and vanished.

It was so against the rules of everything Dorothy knew that it took her several seconds to look away from the empty space and back to Roan. He was still chained, she realized, and the short length of the chain was what had brought him down.

_Okay...as long as I stay out of reach I should be safe. I hope._

Dorothy unclenched her fists and tried to relax. “So...are you going to try to kill me?”

Roan shook his head and wrapped his arms around his knees, huddling in on himself. “I--I don’t think so.”

“That’s not good enough.” Dorothy backed up a few steps, and sat down rather abruptly as the adrenaline crash left her knees weak. A _woof_ reached her ears, and a moment later Toto trotted up to shove a friendly nose in her face, tail wagging.

Dorothy fended him off and scratched him behind the ears, an automatic move that was nonetheless soothing. She could see the top half of Roan over the grass that separated him, but he wasn’t moving.

 _Maybe I should get further away._ Except where could she go? There was nothing resembling a structure anywhere in sight, and Dorothy had no idea where she was in relation to, well, anyplace. And she certainly didn’t have the tesseract trick, or whatever it was that Leith and Mother South used to get around.

_How the hell does she even **do** that? She’s just a baby, she shouldn’t be able to--whatever._

“Why did you come back?” Roan asked suddenly, sounding both bewildered and slightly accusing. “I heard you were swept away in a tornado, back to your Kansas. Was it not true?”

“No, I went home,” Dorothy replied warily. “Mother South asked me to come back.”

“And you left your aunt and uncle?”

She glanced away, feeling a pang of guilt. “ _This_ time I could tell them I was going. They weren’t just left hanging.”

Roan muttered something she couldn’t quite hear. Toto got one last lick in and wandered off, and Dorothy wiped her cheek with her sleeve.

“Look,” she said. “None of this was my idea, but Mother South thinks I can help stop the Beast Forever. Save lives. So here I am.” She looked around again. “Wherever here is.”

Roan shook his head, but before he could say anything there was a rush of air, and Leith reappeared.

Nor was she alone.

* * *

 

The little one truly did have the makings of a strong witch, but she was still a child. When they halted in the middle of a field, Leith staggered, and Morwen bent to catch her quickly. The girl was panting, but she pointed at the two figures a few yards away, and Morwen nodded, understanding. Leith nodded back.

“Leith? What’s the matter with her?” the Kansas girl asked worriedly, scrambling to her feet.

Morwen shook her head and shifted the child enough to touch her forehead. “She’s just exhausted.”

She murmured a word or two to put Leith to sleep, and laid her carefully in the grass to rest.

Dorothy wavered, as if she didn’t quite believe that, but she didn’t move. Morwen put her hands on her hips. “So what have we here?”

It was clear enough. Whatever had happened between the Kansas girl and Glinda’s hound, they were still connected so strongly that Morwen could all but see the energy binding the two of them; and Leith apparently considered it fixable, or she wouldn’t have brought Morwen to deal with the situation.

Dorothy stared back at her, worry shifting to wariness. Lucas rose up like a gangling scarecrow and made her a small bow. “Mistress.”

Morwen had no love for the Kansas girl, but mending the rift between her and Lucas would _infuriate_ Glinda. However, she wasn’t inclined to make it _easy._

“Why did Leith bring _you?_ ” Dorothy asked, frowning a little.

“An excellent question.” Morwen linked her hands behind her back and began a slow circle around the both of them, extending her senses. Dorothy smelled like magic in potential, but none on the surface; Lucas was a bruise of guilt and uncertainty. “Perhaps because you need my help?”

“Need your help with _what?_ ” Dorothy asked. “Leith seems to think we’re, well. Together.” She glanced over at Lucas, who dropped his gaze. “But we’re not.”

“Mmm.” Morwen kept walking, closing the circle around them and noting with disapproval that Dorothy’s instincts regarding magic seemed to be nonexistent. “Why not?”

Lucas straightened his shoulders. “Because I tried to kill her, before she left,” he said shortly. “Her spell...it confused me. I tried to obey Glinda, but…”

“Wait, what spell?” Dorothy frowned at him. “I didn’t put a spell on you.”

“Of course you did.” Lucas gestured vaguely in her direction. “You must have, because there was magic involved, and Glinda said she didn’t enspell me.”

Morwen rolled her eyes. “Yes, and Glinda _never_ lies.”

Lucas flushed, angry or embarrassed, Morwen didn’t care which. Dorothy held up her hands, glaring at him. “I can barely make these things appear when I want to. How the hell could I have done anything to you without you noticing?”

“You didn’t,” Morwen said, then pointed at Lucas. “At least not before I took my little tour of your memories. The only magic on you was Glinda’s.”

Lucas faltered. “But...how is that possible?” He turned to Morwen. “You were there. _Did_ Glinda lie?”

Morwen frowned, because if memory served, Glinda _had_ told the truth. And Lucas had had no magic on him before or after their meeting.

She whirled on Dorothy, who flinched back a step in surprise. “What did he attack you with, the first time?”

Dorothy glanced over at Lucas. “His hands, mostly.” Her mouth twisted. “But he was going to use his knife originally.”

“Right.” Morwen could see it now, how it had been done; she had only to prove it. She closed her eyes and filled her lungs, because this sort of spell was both difficult and draining, and began to let out the air on one pure, soft note.

Dorothy said something, and Lucas answered, but Morwen was concentrating too hard to pay attention. She turned her attention inward, seeking through the darkness for what she wanted.

Finding it was the easier part. Bringing it to her was much more difficult, and the only reason Morwen wasn’t simply going to fetch it in person was that her circle wouldn’t hold for long in her absence and she didn’t trust these two to stay put in the meantime.

Her quarry resisted; it always did. Magic worked best in tandem with the physical world, and going against that always exacted a price in energy and effort, but Morwen wasn’t a cardinal witch for nothing. It was there; and then, with a final wrench, it was _here._

She opened her eyes and staggered, much as Leith had. Rather to Morwen’s surprise, a strong arm slid around her to keep her upright. “Are you okay?” Dorothy asked. “Lightheaded? Do you feel like you’re going to pass out?”

“I’m quite well,” Morwen managed, blinking, and straightened, though she let Dorothy keep her steady while she did.

“Sorry.” Dorothy shrugged. “Professional reflexes.”

Well, she _was_ supposed to be a healer. Morwen gave her a nod and stepped out of her grip; Dorothy hovered for a moment, as if to be sure Morwen was truly all right, then relaxed.

Morwen turned over the object in her hands. “Is this yours?” she asked Lucas.

He was frowning. “It’s mine,” he confirmed. “But why--”

His face went as pale as milk. Morwen smiled grimly, and unsheathed the blade; it caught the sunlight and gleamed.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Dorothy said quietly.

Morwen chuckled. “Exactly. She bespelled the weapon, not the man.”

The knife vibrated with magic, in fact, an angry maliciousness that would be overwhelming to its target. It was a skilled piece of work, and Morwen had to admit herself impressed that Dorothy had survived it not once but twice. _He must truly be of two minds, to fight it long enough for her to save herself._

Lucas had put his head down to be sick in the grass. Dorothy was staring at him with huge cow’s eyes, and Morwen felt her patience run out. With a twirl of her finger, she tightened the circle a fraction; Dorothy took a step towards Lucas as the spell shoved her forward.

“I’m sure you can figure it out from here,” Morwen assured her, and went to pick up the sleeping Leith. She wanted to get the blade to Mother South before Glinda thought to remove the spell.

“But--wait--” Dorothy said as Morwen whistled for Toto. “How do we get _back?_ ”

Morwen grinned at her. “You’re a witch. Figure it out.”

She left them behind in the sunny meadow, and went to put Leith to bed. And cause trouble for Glinda.

_A good day’s work…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The show didn’t give us a firm answer as to what was going on with Roan-slash-Lucas when he attacked Dorothy. I’m choosing to make it a spell for two reasons: one, he kept saying he didn’t want to kill Dorothy, which implies that he wanted to stop but was physically unable to, and two: it’s really the only way I can justify mending their relationship. Anything else seems to me to be forgiving abuse.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! Real life got in the way for a while.

One advantage of nursing as a profession was that it conferred a certain immunity to the grossness of bodily effluvia. Dorothy winced as Roan continued to gag, but let him be as she tried to process what had just happened. Mistress West was like a summer thunderstorm, Dorothy thought; sudden, overwhelming, and occasionally violent.

But if what she said was true…

Roan’s vomiting tapered off. He was on his hands and knees in the grass, and Dorothy wished she at least had some wet wipes or tissues to offer him, but her jacket pockets were empty.

_If Morwen was telling the truth about that knife, then--he’s harmless. Or at least he doesn’t actually want to kill me._

Dorothy bit her lip and walked cautiously closer. Roan sat back heavily on his heels and rubbed at his streaming eyes, pausing to spit once or twice. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

Roan flinched. “Like the most empty-headed fool in Oz,” he said hoarsely, keeping his gaze trained away from her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dorothy said. He looked so _defeated._ _If he’s not dangerous, you can touch him,_ whispered the back of her mind. _If he didn’t **mean** to try to murder you--_

“Wasn’t it?” Roan sounded bitter. “I chose to serve Glinda, after all.”

Dorothy sighed. Roan spat again, mouth twisting, and the nurse in her had to do _something._ Dorothy curled her hands closed, but this time she didn’t squeeze. This time, she just...opened.

The wisp of mist that formed near Roan thickened quickly, and Dorothy smiled. “Hold out your hands,” she said.

Roan blinked at the sight, but obeyed, and Dorothy gave the little cloud a mental nudge. Water began to rain from it, a tiny steady fall; it was too widespread, spattering Roan’s head and shoulders as well as filling his cupped palms, but he gave a startled laugh and tilted his head back to let it wet his face. The droplets gemmed his hair and lashes, flashing back light in the sun, and Dorothy’s breath caught at the sheer beauty of him in that moment.

She couldn’t help the huge grin. Roan splashed his face and rinsed his mouth, and for the first time since arriving back in Oz Dorothy felt _useful_.

The cloud dissipated after a minute or two, but it had served its purpose. Roan sat down with a sigh, and Dorothy took the last cautious step that put her within his reach.

He didn’t move. Dorothy knelt next to him, ignoring the raindrops that soaked through her jeans, and--as she had before--took hold of his chin to turn his face towards her. He flinched at her touch, but didn’t pull away, meeting her eyes reluctantly.

Nothing happened.

Dorothy blew out a breath and let him go, trying to ignore the lingering warmth of his bristly skin imprinted on her fingertips. Roan closed his eyes. “That’s that, then.”

“She was right,” Dorothy agreed.

_Where does that leave us?_

Roan slid back enough to lean against the weight he was still chained to. Dorothy regarded him, thinking.

“Normally I’d say we should take a day or two to process,” she said after a moment. “But I get the feeling that Leith will just start the whole thing over again if we try it.”

Roan let out a short dry laugh, tipping his head back. “Probably.”

It seemed wrong to let a little girl have so much control over them, but in the hazy warmth that was so pleasant after two chilly days, in the release of Morwen’s revelation and of making the magic actually _work_ , it felt like too much trouble. _And it’s not like I know how to get us back anyway._ Dorothy hoped that Morwen was right about Leith just being exhausted by all the teleporting.

“You could just exile me,” Roan said. “If you don’t want to have me executed.”

Dorothy stared at him, but he was still looking at the sky, as if he were still afraid to meet her gaze. “What? Why?”

“I did try to kill you,” he pointed out. “Twice.”

“You were _under a spell_. I think that’s pretty much the definition of ‘not responsible’.” Dorothy picked a blade of grass and began tying it into knots. “Besides, if we’re going to start punishing people for intent, I deserve something for trying to kill Glinda.”

It wasn’t something she was proud of, certainly. Dorothy pulled too hard, and the blade tore. “That and putting you up on that pole...I swear, this is not how I usually live my life.”

Roan snorted, and Dorothy felt the corner of her mouth turn up. “I’m not your judge and jury, Roan. I don’t want to be. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not guilty.”

“How can you say that?” His amusement was gone. “I may have been under Glinda’s spell, but I still have nightmares where I succeed. How can I be _sure?_ ”

“Roan, you begged me to _stop_ you. That’s not exactly what a murderer would do.” Dorothy tossed the grass away and swallowed against the knot in her throat. “Look, you tried to kill me, I stabbed you back. Can we just call it even?”

She looked down at the meadow, wondering if this was even possible. Maybe it was all too much, maybe she was crazy for wanting him again even though he wasn’t the man she’d known. _For all I know he’s still in love with Glinda even after everything she did._

Dorothy heard him sigh, and braced herself.

“Lucas.”

She jerked her head up to look at him. “What?”

He was looking at her with the shy smile of their first days together. “My name is Lucas.”

_Oh._

She never had been able to resist that smile. Slowly, Dorothy held out a hand; slowly, his fingers touched hers.

* * *

 

As she approached Mother South’s tent, Morwen could hear Glinda’s voice within. Briefly, Morwen debated coming back later, to present her evidence without interference, but the anticipation of seeing Glinda’s face when the truth came out was too tempting. She bit back a smile and ducked inside; she’d left the child in the pages’ tent to rest and recover, and now all she held was the bespelled knife.

Glinda and Mother South were bent over some ancient text, speaking in low voices in the witches’ tongue; Morwen caught a few words of debate about whatever it was they were reading, but she didn’t care about that just now.

She halted a few feet away as they looked up, and balanced the knife across her palms. “Mother, I need you to look at this.”

Mother South cocked her head. Next to her, Glinda hissed in a breath, fingers flicking down by her skirts, but Morwen was prepared for that and lifted a blocking hand. Glinda’s spell bounced off her palm and dissipated in a spray of sparks. “Hmm. Whatever did you do _that_ for, sister?”

Glinda’s face creased, and she lifted her chin with a sniff of disdain. Mother South did not comment, instead holding out a hand. “Let me see it, my dear.”

Morwen closed the gap to hand the knife to her, keeping an eye on Glinda; she didn’t put it past her sister to try to destroy the thing at the last second. But Glinda didn’t move as Mother South took it, simply staring at Morwen with icy eyes.

Mother South examined the knife carefully. She could tell whose spell it was easily, Morwen knew; Glinda hadn’t tried to disguise her magic. Morwen merely folded her arms and waited. Much as she enjoyed drama, letting Mother draw her own conclusions first would be the best move.

And it was a pleasure to see Mother South’s face go stern as she turned the knife over in her hands.

“Glinda,” she said, just one cool word.

“It was witches’ business,” Glinda said, equally cool; of _course_ she was going to brazen it out. “The girl was a threat when she first appeared.”

“That may be true, but we do _not_ enspell minions to do our bidding,” Mother South returned. “A spell on the blade to strike true, perhaps, or even to harm only one person, but this? This is pure force, Glinda, and you know that is forbidden.”

Glinda’s mouth pinched. “It was _necessary_. Or did you expect me to dirty my own hands with an outworlder’s blood?”

“I expect you to act as you were taught,” Mother South said, voice low but hard, and Morwen kept a tight rein on her own glee. “Such spells are banned for good reason. We limit our power so that Oz does not rise against us.”

“And look what good such limits did!” Glinda snapped. “They stopped neither the Beast Forever nor the Wizard!”

“If you can tell me how puppet-spells could have halted either I will be glad to hear it.” Mother South raised her brows, and Glinda had to glance away. “As I thought.”

Morwen all but held her breath. Mother South was likely to order her out if she drew attention to herself, and she wanted to burn this into her memory--her ever-superior sister, who considered everything she did to be right no matter who she stepped on in the process, getting her comeuppance.

“It was witches’ business,” Glinda repeated. “That arrogant child isn’t even _from_ Oz. What does it matter how I tried to get rid of her?”

Mother South sighed. “You are ignoring the heart of this,” she said, sounding more disappointed than angry. “It’s not what you tried to do, it is the tool you chose to wield. Not only that, but you _must_ have seen that Roan still bore this blade--and yet you let the spell run again.”

She raised her brows, face stern. “Not against a blundering child, but on your honorary sister, my invited guest, and possibly the hope of this world.”

Glinda’s normally pale skin had gone bone-ivory, but for a haze of red on her cheekbones. Mother South shook her head. “You are far out of balance, daughter. The witch I raised was pure of heart and motive as befit her cardinal direction. You have become unsound.”

She turned to look at Morwen. “That is enough,” she said, and flicked a finger at the tent flap.

There was absolutely no point in arguing. Morwen bowed her head and took herself out, disappointed to miss the rest of the interview, but still satisfied.

She wasn’t stupid; she knew Glinda wouldn’t lose her position or any public face for her act, not when so much hung in the balance. But Glinda wasn’t in charge any longer, and it was past time she was made to face that fact.

And Morwen knew that Mother South would see Glinda properly chastened.

_I expect she’ll have to apologise to the both of them. Won’t **that** be delicious? _

Humming, Morwen wandered off to find something to do.

* * *

 

Witches, Lucas thought, had a strange way of turning his life inside out.

He’d begun the day condemned, chained, and hopeless. Now he was innocent, or at least considered so by the only person who mattered, and while he had no idea what was going to happen next, that was hardly a new thing when it came to Dorothy.

And as for the chain, she’d frowned at it, muttered something under her breath, and touched the shackle with one finger, and it had dropped away like an empty husk.

Best of all, Dorothy was in his arms again, her head a welcome weight on his shoulder and the warm scent of her hair soothing him with every breath. Her own arm was around his waist, and he wasn’t sure she was still awake, here in the reddening light. Lucas didn’t want to move at all; he wanted to keep the moment forever, peace and relief and rightness all mixed.

But Dorothy stirred, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “We should probably talk.”

“Aye,” Lucas agreed, with some reluctance at ending their idyll, and consoled himself with pressing a quick kiss to her hair. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

“Yeah, well, Mother South talked me into it. She’s good that way.” Dorothy sat up, and Lucas made his arms let her go. “Apparently the cardinal witches need my power, East’s power, to do something about the Beast Forever.”

“Makes sense.” Lucas sat up too, crossing his legs tailor-fashion and brushing absently at the grass residue on his trousers.

“But I made her promise she’d send me home when we’re done.” Dorothy smiled, but it wasn’t an entirely happy expression. “Granted, that was...I still thought you were dead, then.”

The joy that sprang up in him was frightening. “Does...does that mean you want to stay?”

Dorothy bit her lip, looking down at the knot of her clasped hands for a long moment. “Honestly?” she said at last. “I don’t know yet. I mean, I’d have to at least go back and tell Em and Henry the truth, and it kinda depends on whether we actually manage to kill this thing, and--”

Lucas leaned forward and laid his hand on hers. “It’s enough to know you’re thinking about it,” he told her, and meant it.

She shook back her hair and gave him a better smile. “Or you could still come back with me. If you wanted.”

That, too, brought a surge of elation, though it was well-mixed with apprehension. Lucas smiled back, trying to keep his voice light. “I’ve followed you this far.”

Dorothy’s smile widened. “Okay. Um. Good.”

Lucas wanted to kiss her again, so much that his bones ached with it, but their new peace felt too fragile. “First there’s the Beast Forever.”

“Yeah.” Dorothy sobered. “I really hope they get their research done soon, because I know fuck-all about this thing but I still have the feeling we’re running out of time.”

Lucas blinked. “I have no idea what you just said,” he said cautiously. “But I think I agree with you.”

Dorothy blinked back, then laughed out loud. “Fair enough. We should probably get back, though.”

“It’ll be a long walk,” Lucas said wryly. “Unless you think Mistress West will return for us.”

“Yeah, and I’d never hear the end of it. Lemme think about this.” Dorothy frowned at the empty air above the meadow, unfolding her hands palm-up in her lap, and Lucas forbore to interrupt.

It took some minutes of scowling concentration before her expression shifted, relaxing, and gold twinkled on her fingers.

Lucas half-expected to see a whirlwind form to carry them away, but it wasn’t nearly so violent. A cool wind rushed down from above, making his jacket flap and flinging Dorothy’s hair into tangles; she laughed, a surprised sound, and scrambled to her feet. “Here--”

He reached up to take her hand and be pulled upright. Dorothy grabbed his other hand too, eyes lit. “I’m not sure about this, better hold on--”

“Always,” Lucas murmured, and tightened his grip.

And the wind took them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. Call it writer's block.

It was distinctly odd, reentering the camp at Dorothy’s side. Lucas more than half-expected shouts, alarms, and armed guards, but aside from some curious glances--and most of those were at Dorothy--no one said a word.

Dorothy herself ignored the people they passed, keeping a firm grip on Lucas’ hand and heading straight for the center of the camp and the Queen’s pavilion. “We’re going to get this straightened out right now,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear her. “I mean, I don’t know what West did with that dagger, but I want Tip, uh, Ozma to understand what happened before someone takes it into their head to execute you or something.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Lucas murmured back, and watched the corner of her mouth curl upwards. Past the nausea and the shame, and the _relief_ , he was beginning to feel a strange new anger. Because it was one thing to swear his service to Glinda; it was quite another to be _compelled_.

He had to admit that the tangled confusion at Calcedon, old love and loyalty struggling against new, might have fallen out either way, given time and freedom. _I might still have slain Dorothy at Glinda’s word._

Or he might have gone with her instead, embracing the man he’d become through her. There was no way to truly know, not now.

_But I was less than a minion to Glinda; she made me a **thing** , an automaton to work at her will. _And it was only Dorothy’s own strength that had saved her from him.

A shudder crawled over Lucas, and his fingers tightened without his willing it. But Dorothy merely squeezed back and kept going.

Before they reached the big pavilion, however, a small stir in the crowd ahead of them resolved into Ozma herself, flanked by both a guardsman and a young witch. Dorothy straightened, inhaling, and automatically Lucas released her to bow. But Ozma’s raised hand forestalled whatever Dorothy was going to say.

“I’ve just seen Mother South,” Ozma said briskly; she wasn’t smiling, but there was no trace of the cold anger of before. “Lucas, you’re back on duty tomorrow morning.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving both of them staring after her and the crowd staring at _them._

“Well.” Dorothy blinked. “ _That_ was easy.”

Something bubbled up in Lucas’ throat, and he was surprised to discover it was a laugh.

* * *

 

“That’s it, you’re doing well,” came the low voice. “Keep concentrating.”

Dorothy didn’t open her eyes. Focusing on the fragile flow of her magic was a delicate task; she’d finally proved she could call it up without the spur of anger, but maintaining it was still difficult.

“Magic is a tool,” Mother South continued, softly enough that Dorothy could let her words blur into the background. “It is many things, but most of all it is ours, and subject to our will. Let it bend to yours.”

Behind Dorothy’s closed lids, the magic was a twisting golden chain, spinning through the fingers she wasn’t actually moving. Some part of her wondered vaguely why it wasn’t blue in her vision, but most of her was taken up with sustaining the trickle, not letting the chain snap.

Building.

“Good,” Mother South said, more strongly, and Dorothy opened her eyes. On the little table before her, between her hands, sat an apple.

It was quite an ordinary one, at least to Dorothy’s eyes; she poked it tentatively with one finger, and it didn’t give this time, didn’t puff into dust or disappear. Slowly Dorothy let her grip on the magic go, and still the apple was there, solid and red.

“Very good indeed.” Mother South smiled at her.

Dorothy smiled, half in relief, and picked the apple up. It felt solid too, heavy and smooth; she lifted it to her lips and took a small bite.

And grimaced. _Bleah. Red Delicious._

She swallowed the bite and shrugged at Mother South, who was now frowning in concern. “Supermarket fruit. Looks better than it tastes.”

“Ah. Still, an excellent result for so early in your practice and so late in your years. Most of us learn when we’re still quite young.”

Dorothy scraped the apple with a fingernail, and was fascinated to see that she had managed to generate the wax coating as well. “And learning’s always easier at that age, sure.”

“Exactly. And in better times I would not push you so hard, but--” Mother South took the apple from Dorothy, setting it aside. “Time is something we have little of.”

Dorothy nodded, and did not protest when Mother South set her another exercise, and another, and another.

It wasn’t until her fingers, mental and physical, were cramping and her concentration was shot that Mother South let Dorothy stop. The eternal pot of tea had been waiting the whole time, faint wisps of steam rising from its spout, yet when Dorothy took the mug Mother South handed her and sipped, the tea was at the perfect strength, not stewed from long standing.

“So how’s the research going?” she asked, curious. Dorothy didn’t know _where_ it was being done, but she kept picturing the library of Minas Tirith in the Lord of the Rings film, and hoping it was better organized.

“Our best scholars are arguing translation,” Mother South said wryly, sitting back with her own cup. “But we will have answers soon, if only because we must.”

Her glance towards the distant Emerald City was worried, a sharp contrast to her usual serenity, and it made Dorothy’s skin prickle. Somewhere in the back of her mind was always the thought that if their efforts failed, she could still go home--with Lucas in tow, presumably, and Leith (and Toto) if she could manage it.

_That’s assuming we all survive, though._

_There’s no guarantee of that…_

“There is no magic in your world, correct?” Mother South asked abruptly, apparently just looking to make conversation.

“Not like _this_ , no.” Dorothy waved one hand. “We have science instead.”

Mother South nodded. “Science is a small discipline here, but a worthy one. I have hopes that with the Wizard’s bans rescinded, the two schools of thought can work in tandem.”

Dorothy blinked. “In my world, they’re kind of opposites. I mean, the sort of magic you use is...mythical. It only exists in fiction.” That was a gross oversimplification, but Dorothy didn’t want to try to explain the details.

“Perhaps it’s just that no one exercises their talent. I was able to use mine while I was there,” Mother South pointed out.

“Could be.” Dorothy’s own efforts in that direction had ended in no result, but admittedly she was still new at the whole thing. “Hey, can you tell me, what else is out there besides Oz? And Ev.”

Mother South shrugged. “Other lands, other kingdoms. The sea lies to the east, but if it has a far shore no one from Oz has ever seen it.” She smiled a little. “Have you many lands in your world?”

“More than I can count. I’ve never been to any of them, though.” Geography had never been her strong point. Dorothy was reminded of an old kids’ book where someone in a fantasy world had been amazed to discover that the protagonists had come from a world _round like a ball,_ and hoped that she would not have to try to explain that.

_Wait a minute. If this world isn’t a sphere, then what…_

The thought lost itself in dizziness, and Dorothy shook it off. _Who knows what this place is really like? Worry about it **later**._

“Actually, I’ve never been very far from home at all,” Dorothy said slowly. It was true; she’d gone less than two hundred miles for nursing school, and in the Midwest that wasn’t far at all. But there hadn’t been money, and then there hadn’t been time…

... _And now you’re farther from home than anyone’s ever been._

Her head was starting to hurt, or maybe it was her heart. Dorothy gulped a mouthful of tea to distract herself.

_Well. Kids in those books always had a reason to be there, a quest, right? So I know what mine is. Just gotta fulfill it._

Mother South seemed lost in her own thoughts, so they sat in silence for a while. The tea tasted like just tea, but Dorothy still felt herself relaxing, the stress of practice ebbing. _Maybe it’s Mother South herself._ The witch did seem to exude calm as easily as breathing.

Finally her cup was empty, and Mother South stirred, sighing. “It’s time for the next step,” she said. “Again, necessity drives us.”

She raised her voice. “Come in, my dear.”

The tent flap lifted and West ducked through, eyes bright beneath the tangle of her hair. Mother South rose from her seat. “Morwen will help you learn to work in tandem,” she said, and West slid into the vacated space, a small hard smile quirking her lips.

For all that she was grateful for West’s help in getting the mess with Lucas straightened out, Dorothy was still wary of her. “No offense, but can’t I work with you?” she asked Mother South.

West chuckled, and Mother South shook her head. “Tandem work between two witches is best done between opposite aspects. The power is much more easily balanced.”

West laid her hands palm-up on the table invitingly. “Come on, little tyro. I won’t bite.” Her smile widened. “Much.”

Her gaze wasn’t kind, but it didn’t have that edge of cruelty either. _And it’s not like I have a lot of choice here._ Dorothy laid her hands on West’s, fumbling a little to return the grip of fingers around wrists, and waited for instruction.

“This time, I only want you to mesh your magics,” Mother South said in the firm low voice she used for instruction. “Dorothy, close your eyes and let Morwen in. Morwen, I know it’s been some time, but East’s magic is familiar to you.”

Dorothy felt a tremor pass through West’s fingers, and felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the woman who’d lost her sister, as dreadful as that sister had been. She tightened her fingers just barely in return and shut her eyes, wondering what letting West in was supposed to even be like.

The fact that she trusted West about as far as she could throw her nagged at Dorothy, but she set her shoulders and waited.

And then she saw it.

Her own magic was golden, but West’s was green, a crackling cloud that reminded Dorothy of storms even though _she_ was supposed to be the one with the weather powers. It swept towards her in her mind’s eye, then slowed to hover before extending tendrils in her direction, almost politely.

“Don’t flinch,” came West’s voice, low and amused. “This won’t hurt…”

The tendrils came closer, and a sudden rebellion rose in Dorothy. Carefully, she stretched out her mental hand, sheathing it in the gold of her own power. Her courage failed her before she touched the green cloud; she swallowed hard, but didn’t withdraw.

“Huh! Not bad,” West said, and then the tendrils met her illusory fingers.

There was no exact word in Dorothy’s vocabulary for what happened next. As soon as their magics met, she felt power flood through her, reverberating back to West. It was a heady rush, and the sudden fountain of gold-green light between them sang with possibility.

And in the background she could feel West’s emotions--surprise, approval, a touch of anger--and the same rush Dorothy was feeling.

_“Very_ well done,” came Mother South’s voice, and a tap on her shoulder broke Dorothy out of the magic’s trance. She opened her eyes--and gaped.

Above their clasped hands hovered a glittering, coruscating mist of energy, giving off light bright enough to cast shadows. It was dense and vibrant and almost alive, and Dorothy stared at it in astonishment. _We did that?_

Beyond it, West was wearing a wicked grin. “I have to say, tyro, you’re a bit of a natural.” Abruptly she pulled her hands from Dorothy’s, and the cloud burst, scattering light around the tent before vanishing. The singing harmony of their meshed powers fell to silence, and Dorothy bit back a yelp.

Mother South gave West an admonishing look, but didn’t criticize. “You are learning much more quickly than I hoped, yes,” she said, squeezing Dorothy’s shoulder gently then turning to West. “And I’m glad to see that your skills are still sharp.”

“Thank you, Mother,” West murmured without a trace of irony. “I _am_ out of practice.” Her fingers flexed.

“That’s to be expected.” Mother South sighed, and Dorothy had the feeling that she was missing something, but she was still too dazzled by what had just happened to pursue it.

“Okay, so we can mesh powers, but what _for?_ ” she asked. “And we can do that all together?”

“Oh, there’s _lots_ of reasons to work together,” West said, lifting her arms over her head in a stretch. A reminiscent smile touched her lips. “Wait until we all four do it together. The experience is...more.”

_If we can get along that long,_ Dorothy thought with some doubt. Mother South nodded.

“And in this case, all we need to do is generate the power and feed it to our champion. That will give them the strength and protection they will need to defeat the Beast Forever.”

Dorothy huffed. “Good, I’m glad it’s something _simple._ ”

West laughed at her sarcasm, and Mother South smiled. “It will be hard, and draining, and may kill us all. But it will also be glorious.”

She sat down, drawing her scarf around her. “Now, do it again.”

_Wait, what?_

But West was holding out her hands, challenge clear in her face, and Dorothy put the question aside-- _for now_ \--and matched her grip.

If West could do it, she could too.

Really.

* * *

At least the rain had stopped.

Lucas trudged through the camp, feeling abnormally weary. Guard duty was no more strenuous than usual, even with the bout of sword practice he’d had that morning before reporting to the Queen, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Rations were getting smaller by the day, and everyone was hungry by now.

It was worrying Ozma, but there was little she could do about it. The camp population kept getting bigger, but those who came in had usually stripped the local area of resources already. Even witches couldn’t produce enough by magic to feed this many--not if they wanted to spare power to heal the sick.

_This can’t go on._ If something wasn’t done, conditions would deteriorate _fast,_ and people would suffer and possibly die.

_But moving this lot can’t be done at speed. And where would we go?_

Guarding the Queen meant hearing the reports brought in by scouts, including the secret ones. The Beast Forever’s shadow might be just on the horizon, but its blight was spreading much more quickly, a stain widening out from Emerald City. Its leading edge was no more than a day’s ride away, and moving faster and faster. _At this rate, it’ll overtake us before we get much further._ And not only would it sicken nearly everyone it touched, it would destroy all the vegetation as well--which meant no crops, and no food beyond whatever people might have stored. _And this is harvesttime._

Lucas sighed, and pushed open the flap to the tent housing the royal guards. There was no one else there just at the moment, and Lucas took the opportunity to wash up quickly and lie down in his narrow cot.

He’d tried to see Dorothy earlier, but the page sent to look for her had said she was with Mother South and couldn’t be disturbed.

_What will happen to her? And Leith?_ The vision of them both draining their powers trying to heal the sick was horribly vivid; he could easily picture Dorothy pushing herself to death in an effort to save everyone she could.

If there were no other concerns, Lucas thought, she might be convinced to go home to Kansas again, with Leith in her arms; but her sense of duty was strong, and he wasn’t at all certain that Dorothy could be convinced to do it. _Perhaps with Leith as a goad._

But not with him. It was a cold, hard thought, now that Lucas had her back, but he had his own duty, and it would require him to lay his life down before Ozma lost hers.

He grimaced and rolled over. _Stop it, man. We’ve hardly come to that yet._

Lucas closed his eyes and disciplined himself for sleep.

He was three-quarters of the way there when someone rattled the flap of the tent, bringing him awake again. On a cot across the way, one of the other guards grumbled. “What?”

The flap opened to reveal one of the witchling pages. “Message for Master Lucas.”

The guard muttered something and pulled his blanket over his head. Lucas sighed and pushed carefully upright--the cots had a tendency to overbalance. “What is it?”

The page couldn’t have been more than nine, but she eyed him as coolly as any grown witch. “Mistress East requests your presence.”

_Dorothy?_ Lucas ignored the snicker from a different cot and shoved his feet into his boots, grabbing his coat as he stood. It was a simple matter to aim a kick at the leg of that particular cot as he passed it; the resulting thud and cursing made him grin a little as he left the tent.

Dorothy’s tent was hardly better than the guards’ and was smaller to boot, but it did have a tiny brazier. She was sitting on a bed that was two cots pushed together, looking so exhausted and fragile that Lucas was across the intervening space and cupping her face in his hand before he even thought about it. “Are you all right?”

Dorothy managed a wan smile. “Yeah. Just wiped out. Been practicing magic all day and I think I overdid it.” She leaned into his touch. “Can you have a headache that isn’t quite there?”

Lucas frowned. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Mmm. Missed you.” Her eyes drifted shut. “Want to stay with me?”

The hand that covered his own was just a little too tight, and that told Lucas that Dorothy wasn’t quite as certain as she seemed. Lucas reined in the desire to snatch her up and run as far from the Beast Forever as they could get.

Instead, he shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then sat down next to her and pulled her close. Dorothy went without protest, her head dropping to rest on his shoulder, and Lucas rolled them both carefully down to the bed.

She was asleep before they were horizontal, and Lucas twitched the rough blanket over them both and followed her, blissfully content.

 


	12. Chapter 12

“When we first came to Oz…” Jane’s voice trailed off. “Well. You’ve done it. You know what it’s like.”

The rain was still coming down, pattering on the medical tent and providing a sort of white noise against the stirs and mutters of the patients it held. Dorothy sat cross-legged on the floor, ignoring the chill of the ground beneath the canvas; she nodded.

“It was something that shouldn’t have happened, not in real life.”

“Exactly.” The wire she was braiding gleamed between Jane’s fingers as they moved, throwing back the lamp’s light. Dorothy didn’t know what the braid was for, but she figured it had something to do with the still form in the nearby cot, the wounded boy. She still wasn’t clear on the connection between energy physics and medicine, but there were other things to talk about just now. “I think it was harder for Karen than for me. And of course Frank adapted quickly, for all he insisted that science was more powerful than magic.”

Jane paused for a moment, flexing her hands. Dorothy tugged her jacket down; the air was cool and damp even within the tent.

“Besides, I was trying to deal with the loss of...of your father.” Jane started braiding again. “That and being pregnant with you. Everything else kind of took a back seat to that.”

Dorothy nodded again. She really had no idea what to say, but Jane didn’t seem to require words. It was weird; after all the years of miserable indecision about Karen, Dorothy found herself hungry for whatever Jane could tell her, about the past, about anything.

_I’m not sure I can **trust** it, but I want to hear it._

“That’s what got us in trouble eventually, Frank’s obsession with science. I sometimes wonder - ” Jane lifted a hand to nudge her spectacles back up her nose. “Maybe if we’d treated him differently, before, he might not have made such a mess of things.”

Dorothy considered that. She didn’t have anywhere near the full story, but from what Jane had told her and what she’d seen of Frank -

“He was an adult,” she said finally. “He made his own choices.”

Jane laughed, soft and sad. “That’s true.”

They were silent for a little while as Jane finished the braid and did something to the end with a small tool. Dorothy had spent the morning practicing magic-merging with West and Mother South together, but as soon as they’d broken up to rest she’d escaped to the medical tent. With everything that had been going on, she had barely seen Jane at all. And while Dorothy expected to be summoned back any minute now, she would take what she could get.

_Because who knows what’ll happen tomorrow? Especially here._

“So tell me about your work,” Jane said, wiping her fingers on a rag.

Dorothy did; it was kind of a relief to speak to someone who understood the framework of her life, if not the specifics. But as she told stories about grumpy patients, funny patients, exasperating colleagues, and Mrs. Clifford’s adventures in makeup, it came to her with sharp suddenness that she _missed_ Aunt Em and Uncle Henry. All the newness and bright colors of Oz couldn’t make up for their absence, and even if Jane was from Dorothy’s own world she didn’t know the well-worn routines of the hospital, the shorthand of memory that Em and Henry and Dorothy all shared.

Jane might be Dorothy’s mother, but she was not Dorothy’s _family_. Maybe it had taken being thrown into a war to show her the truth of it, and maybe if they got the time - and they both survived - things might change, but as hungry as Dorothy’s heart was for her mother, Jane was still mostly a stranger.

Em and Henry were her bedrock, and Dorothy wished that she could have told them the truth. _But even if I could have made them believe it, they just would have worried **more**._

_Maybe I can show them later._

_If we do survive…_

* * *

 

“Again,” Mother South said, and paid no attention to the flash of displeasure in Glinda’s eyes. Morwen gave the tyro credit; she was ignoring Glinda’s tiny shows of temper just as thoroughly, and pressing on with matching her magic to that of the North. It was going slowly, and there was really no reason for Morwen to be there, but she had nothing else she wanted to be doing just then and in Mother South’s tent there was at least hot tea that Morwen didn’t have to brew herself.

Also, her presence annoyed Glinda, which was a bonus.

The tyro was flagging before Mother South called for a breather, and she sat back, flexing her fingers and rolling her head on her neck, while Glinda sat primly straight with her nose in the air. Dorothy looked better than she had, despite her obvious weariness, and Morwen plumed herself silently for finishing what Leith had begun.

_It seems the hound is good for more than just guard duty._

“All right,” Mother South said after a moment. “One more time with Morwen, Dorothy, and then we will all try it together.”

Glinda gave up her seat, and Morwen settled her skirts on the stool as Dorothy took the opportunity to stretch. They joined hands with practiced ease now, and Dorothy grinned a little. “It is by will alone that I set my mind in motion,” she muttered.

Morwen squinted at her, baffled. “What?”

Dorothy shrugged. “Nothing.”

Morwen rolled her eyes and reached out with her magic, but before they could mesh power an overexcited witchling burst into the tent. “Mother South! The Queen requests your presence!”

Mother South frowned, but the witchling bounced in place. “They’ve found it!” the child said, in what was probably supposed to be a whisper. “The answer! To the prophecy!”

Mother South straightened, gaze sharpening, and Morwen felt a flush run through her at the news. Dorothy’s brows went up, and even Glinda cocked her head.

Mother South laid a hand on the child’s head, calming her. “Tell her Majesty we will be with her directly,” she said, and the witchling slipped back through the tent flap. Mother South straightened her scarf and looked at them each in turn.

“Let us go,” she said softly, and led them out.

Of course the news had leaked. The refugees of the tent city couldn’t know the details, but they knew _something_ was afoot, and the air was alive with excitement as the Cardinal Witches made their way towards the royal pavilion. Morwen didn’t turn her head to look, but she knew that more and more people were falling in behind them, hoping for a miracle.

Only the four of them were permitted to enter the pavilion, however, and as the flap fell shut behind them, Mother South gestured and breathed a word, and the rustle of the gathering crowd outside was cut off. Out of the corner of her eye, Morwen saw Dorothy blink in surprise. _Hah. She understood that_. The witches’ tongue would be growing in the girl’s mind by now as she learned her magic.

Ozma was sitting on her makeshift throne, crown in place though she was wearing the same warm woolens that most people were sporting, and she’d banished the court; their little messenger had come and gone, and the only others in the tent were the researchers and Dorothy’s Lucas. The two of them exchanged a quick glance as the witches reached the throne, but no more than that.

The researchers, two of Glinda’s oldest girls and three aged witches, stood in a tight cluster, their faces closed, which was not good news. Morwen steeled herself as the cardinal witches bowed to their queen. _It seems I was depending on an answer more than I knew._ The mere idea of repeating the failures of the past made her ill, but what else could they do -

“Your Majesty. Mother South.” The eldest researcher dipped her head. “We have a complete translation at last.”

“And?” Ozma broke in impatiently, and Morwen blessed her silently for her dismissal of protocol.

“And it makes no _sense_!” Glinda’s witchling burst out, looking on the verge of fury. A muttered scold from one of the others failed to quell her. “It’s asking for the impossible.”

“Explain,” Mother South said crisply.

The eldest researcher waved her companions to silence. “As you know, Mother, the prophecy is ancient, and the language has changed a great deal since it was set down. We were baffled by the word used to describe the champion, but after much debate - ” She glared at the others. “ - we have had to translate it as ‘the man within the woman’. There is no equivalent word in the modern tongues.”

Morwen frowned. “Perhaps it means a male infant,” said another researcher desperately. “If her Majesty - ”

A babble of voices broke out, but in the midst of it the answer flashed like a beacon in Morwen’s mind. Dorothy straightened, blinking, and opened her mouth. “Hey - ”

Ozma’s laugh cut through the noise, and they all fell silent as she stood. The Queen’s face was bright with triumph and joy as she raised her hands. “It’s me. It’s _me._ ”

Mother South wheeled to face her, blinking, and Morwen realised belatedly that Mother South had never heard the story of Ozma’s past. Light was gathering around Ozma’s hands, and Morwen stepped forward. “No!”

Ozma glared at her, and Morwen turned up a hand in apology. “My Queen - not yet. You must do it before your people, or they will think you an imposter.”

“Oh - very well.” The light sputtered out. “But let’s get this done quickly. I have a Beast to kill.”

One could sharpen a blade on her smile, Morwen thought, and felt her own lips curving up. They might all still die beneath the Beast’s shadow - but by all that was precious, they had a _chance._


	13. Chapter 13

_They’re not looking at you,_ Dorothy told herself nervously. The crowd outside the pavilion was rapt, mostly silent in the drizzling rain as Mother South spoke to them, but Dorothy knew it wasn’t strictly true; there were a few curious glances being sent her way.

She sent one of her own towards Lucas, but he was watching the crowd as he should be, though a tiny baffled frown showed through his increasingly scruffy beard.

_Huh, that’s right, he wasn’t there for that conversation._ In fact, judging from the reactions a few minutes earlier, only Dorothy and Morwen had been in on Tip’s secret. _Well, the whole world’s gonna know now._

The crowd didn’t seem to mind; the gazes turning to Ozma as Mother South explained were hungry, but not hostile.

“Our Champion has been with us all the time,” Mother South finished, stepping back as Ozma raised her hands again.

All the practice sessions had not prepared Dorothy for what she saw now. Ozma raised her hands above her head, deliberately theatrical, and magic filled them like water flowing into a bowl - and then it gushed down over her, a cloak of living lightning that became smoke amid the gasps and shrieks of the crowd.

It cleared away, and in Ozma’s place stood Tip, still in the same clothes but with the crown slipping sideways on his shorter hair. A ripple of reaction ran through the gathered people, and Tip lifted a hand to pluck the crown away.

“Citizens of Oz,” he said, and his voice was the same. “I will go forth with the restored Cardinal Witches to defeat the Beast Forever. Let your belief go with us, and we cannot lose!”

The cheers were deafening, but Dorothy felt cold gathering in her chest. Sure, they might have the key, but they could still all _die_ trying to take the Beast down.

And the sober faces of the other witches meant, Dorothy saw, that they knew it too.

Jane was just as aware, and she paced in the tiny confines of her tent-room when Dorothy came to tell her. No one had reshackled her, but Dorothy still hadn’t seen her outside of her erstwhile prison.

“Are you sure you have to do this?” Jane burst out, halting long enough to push up her spectacles and rub her eyes with a shaking hand. “Surely the other three have enough power - ”

“It’s more about balance,” Dorothy said, the dread in her stomach mixing with both warmth and guilt. “Four directions, four witches.”

Jane hissed a little. “It’s times like these that I start to see where Frank was coming from,” she muttered.

Dorothy didn’t let herself roll her eyes. “It’s the way things are here. And I can’t _not_ help, not if people will die. Go on dying,” she corrected herself, and waved vaguely at the rest of the medical tent. “I’m a nurse, after all.”

Jane sighed. “I know. I know...it’s just...I only just got you _back_.”

There was really nothing Dorothy could say to that. Jane’s hug was hard, almost too tight, and all Dorothy could do was hug her back.

_There just isn’t enough time._

* * *

“It’s too early for this,” Dorothy muttered. One of the guards surrounding Tip glanced briefly at her, but no one else seemed to notice.

Dawn was coming up grey, and the little cavalcade of people was working its way across deserted lands towards the shadowed Emerald City. They’d broken camp before the morning was even a thought, and while as a nurse Dorothy was used to ridiculously early mornings, most of those had involved unlimited coffee and getting up from a nice bed, not sleeping on hard ground and drinking weird tea, without a shower in sight.

She glanced over to where Tip walked, surrounded by six guards - one of them Lucas. The Queen - King? - wore the Pastoria family dagger, and a fierce look of anticipation.

Beyond him was the one exception to the walkers, Mother South’s tiger-drawn chariot. There were two big cats this time, though Dorothy didn’t know if they turned into humans when no one was looking; they’d sort of disappeared the night before.

Glinda rode in the chariot with Mother South, while Morwen strode along as if she’d never tasted poppy in her life. Dorothy herself was glad she’d brought sneakers; the ground wasn’t particularly rough just at the moment, but they were going to be walking all day.

Horses would have been faster, but they were just one day out from the refugee camp, and Dorothy could see the Beast’s shadow ahead of them, a dark grayness that reminded her of smog, even though Emerald City itself was still beyond the horizon.

And within that, nothing grew. There would be nothing for horses to eat, and they couldn’t pack enough grain along. _So we walk_.

Still, the miles seemed to be going faster than expected, and Dorothy strongly suspected that one of the others was doing some magic to hurry them along. And she might be sore from sleeping wrapped in a blanket on the ground, but she’d had Lucas’ shoulder as a pillow.

The Beast Forever’s shadow was...odd. The closer they got, the less it looked like anything Dorothy could remember seeing; it was less like pollution and more like a wall of _dimness_ that seemed to waver when she wasn’t looking.

“That is _deeply_ creepy,” she said to Morwen, who grimaced.

“What casts it is worse, but you’re right. We’ll be lucky if we can see our way once we get into that.”

By noon they were so close that the shadow blotted out half the sky. Mother South raised her hand to halt the party. “It’s time.”

The guards, all ordinary mortals, could go no further without falling ill. Dorothy swallowed hard and went to find Lucas.

He wrapped her up in a hard hug, and Dorothy could feel him trembling beneath her hands. “I don’t want you to go,” he said against her ear. “Not again, Dorothy.”

“I know,” she said, fighting the words past the knot in her throat, storing up every sensation - his bony spine under her fingertips, the prickle of his beard on her throat, the dusty warmth of his scent, tinged with campfire smoke. His voice, low and desperate. _Why can’t we make happy memories instead?_

She pressed a kiss on his mouth, trying to rein in her own desperation, and forced her grip to loosen. Lucas let go, but then buried his hands in her hair, pressing their foreheads together. _“Dorothy.”_

“Wait for us,” she choked out. “Don’t let the shadow catch you, but wait for us.”

Pulling away _hurt_. Dorothy took one step away, then turned back and reached up, sliding her hands along Lucas’ jaw to settle against his pulse.

And she reached _in_ , pulling up a bit of the new power she’d been learning to use, pushing it _out_ and into him. Dorothy felt as clumsy as a week-old kitten, but the brightness settled in Lucas’ chest as if it were happy to be there.

Lucas blinked, looking unsure, and Dorothy managed half a smile. “It’s a blessing,” she muttered, and let him go, turning away before she gave in and started crying.

An arm hooking through hers startled Dorothy. When she looked up, Morwen smirked at her. “Not bad,” she said, leading Dorothy towards the huge wall. “You shouldn’t have wasted the power...but still, not bad.”

Dorothy glanced back. Lucas was watching them go, and her eyes blurred until he was a bright smear in her vision, and she had to turn back around before she tripped.

“Join hands,” Mother South ordered, and when Dorothy blinked her vision clear she could see no trace of the chariot or the tigers, just Mother South and Glinda and Tip lining up. “We can’t hope to go undetected, but I may be able to make us look like one instead of five.”

Morwen switched her grip so their fingers meshed, and on Dorothy’s other side Mother South’s strong hand took Dorothy’s free one. They stepped forward, closer, closer…

...And through.

* * *

Lucas waited.

The moons had risen long since, the faintest hint of light against the tight cloud cover, but for all that he could barely sense them, it was still eerie to see them pass behind the Beast Forever’s shadow and disappear as if it had snuffed them out.

There was almost no light, in fact, and though Lucas had a lantern in his pack he hadn’t brought it out. With the shadow came the sense of being watched, and Lucas didn’t want to attract any more attention than necessary.

The other guards were long gone, retreating back out of reach of the shadow. Lucas didn’t blame them. Ozma had released them from their duty, and waiting around would accomplish nothing; they would do better to go back to the camp and help where they could.

Ozma had released _him_ too, but Lucas had a deeper duty than to his monarch.

_Not duty. Need._

He didn’t know the range of a cardinal witch’s senses, but surely they were far enough ahead by now. Lucas had no idea what lay within the shadow, but he figured he could track five people who weren’t trying to hide their passage.

The idea was madness, of course; Lucas didn’t know how long it would be before the blight sickened him, but he would go all the same.

_I’ve lost Dorothy twice. I won’t lose her again._

He was just settling his pack on his shoulders when a familiar jingle made him look around. The shadow that was Toto trotted up, nudging Lucas’ hand briefly in greeting but making no other sound.

A faint light sprang up, a wisp of glow floating over a small palm. Lucas sighed and let himself smile at Leith. “I don’t suppose there’s any use in telling you to go back.”

She shook her head firmly, and Lucas held out a hand. There was no stopping a witch of such power - and anyway, she’d be safer with him.

Walking into the shadow was like nothing Lucas had ever experienced. It wasn’t _bad_ , as such, but it made him feel as if they were walking past a distant slaughterhouse; there was a subtle reek at the edge of his senses, and the faint feel of death all around him.

Three steps into it and Leith gasped, her light going out. Lucas held her hand more tightly and drew his sword, straining his eyes against the near darkness, but there was no movement, and only the low rumble of Toto’s growl.

“What is it?” Lucas whispered, but all he got was the press of Leith’s head against his arm and the feel of her negative shake.

It was a long moment to wait, but when nothing came at them Lucas sheathed his sword and let Leith go long enough to light his lantern, though she insisted on clinging to his belt while he did it. Lucas didn’t argue - it was safer to have her within arm’s reach, even with Toto pressed up against her other side. It might draw attention, but they couldn’t move on without the light.

The lantern burned feebly, as if the very air was oppressive, but it was enough for them to walk by. In a way, Lucas was glad; what little they could see as they went was bad enough. The grass was dead beneath their feet, dry and brittle; bushes were leafless, looking as if they had died a century prior. Occasionally there were tiny feathered corpses caught in the branches, and Lucas knew there had to be larger ones out in the darkness.

As yet they’d come across no road, and it was difficult to tell direction under the shadow, much harder than Lucas had expected. But Leith seemed to know where they were going - or perhaps it was Toto, who stayed close instead of ranging forward and back. Whichever one it was, Lucas decided to trust the guidance, especially when he spotted the occasional footprint in the dead grass as they went.

The night seemed to last forever, and if Lucas hadn’t had the oil level to watch in the lamp, he might have thought the shadow brought an evil enchantment of endless darkness. But after a long and weary time, a sourceless light began to grow, and Lucas knew the sun was rising.

When he could snuff the lantern, they could see that they were in a forest - a vast tangle of dead trees and gray ground, with only a dusty track winding through it. It wasn’t like a drought, or a fire, Lucas thought; it was as though something had smothered all the life, or drained it away. Nothing stirred, not even the breath of a breeze; at one point they passed a dead elk lying on its side, as skeletal as if it had starved to death, as withered as the trees.

Toto ignored it. Leith released Lucas’ hand to go over and crouch beside it, and he grimaced. “You can’t help it, sweetheart. Come away, that’s not good to touch.”

Leith didn’t turn, instead passing a hand over it, as if stroking the dry hide from a few inches away, then pausing to wait.

But nothing happened, and when she straightened and came back, Lucas could see grief in her face. He sighed, and took her hand again.

“It’s all bad here,” he told her softly. “Let’s just hope the Queen can fix it.”

Leith looked up at him. “The King,” she said, soft but stern.

Lucas opened his mouth, then closed it. “Right,” he said. “The King.”

They went on.


	14. Chapter 14

The witches and the King walked for a long time. The ruined landscape reminded Dorothy of vintage photographs of the aftermath of war, lacking only twists of barbed wire. All Oz’s glorious, vivid color was gone. Even the yellow road, when they came to it, was as dull as old cement, and felt like each brick might crumble under her next step. 

None of them spoke as they walked. Mother South’s face was closed and serene, and Tip’s was hard with concentration; Glinda looked haughty and unconcerned, and Morwen watched their surroundings with bright eyes that held no gleam of humor. 

Dorothy didn’t know what _she_ looked like, but she had other things to claim her attention. Her magic had retreated deep within her, or at least that was what it felt like; it was curled up tight, and she wondered uneasily if it was trying to _hide._

_I just hope I don’t have to use it at a moment’s notice._

The journey was dreamlike; an unpleasant, sticky sort of dream in which time didn’t pass. The landscape changed as they traveled through it, but meadow or woods or valley, it was all dead and dry. The two villages they passed through looked as if they had been abandoned for a decade, and Dorothy winced at the sight of an emaciated horse lying dead in front of a half-filled cart, the skeletal corpses of dogs on the verges. Even the insects were missing. 

They stopped for the night deep within a forest of leafless trees, despite Tip’s protest that Emerald City was not far away. Their camp was sparse and quiet; the Beast Forever’s shadow seemed to drain energy even from witches, and Dorothy was grateful that Lucas had remained behind. _Who knows what it would have done to him…_

The morning was gray and lifeless, but they didn’t have far to go. Mother South halted them at the edge of the forest, just close enough to see across the wide plain to the city beyond. 

It was hard to make out detail at that distance, and harder still when everything was monochrome, but the hulking, enormous shape perched on the tallest spire was impossible to miss. Dorothy couldn’t decide whether it looked more like a vulture or a pterosaur, but it was the size of a small whale, at least. _Nothing that big should be able to fly, but hey, it’s not like this is Kansas._

Tip swore softly, hands clenching, and Dorothy felt a tremor of fear. _How the fuck can this **kid** take on something that size?_

“Working together, my dear,” said a soft voice by her side; Mother South. “With all our power, we stand a chance.” 

“No more than a chance,” said Glinda harshly. “We are not all...in possession of our full powers.” 

Her words were clearly aimed at Dorothy and Morwen, but Mother South spoke before Morwen’s intake of breath turned to words. “Then it is a good thing that we practiced.” 

She looked at each one of them, gathering them in with her gaze, and Dorothy felt her nerves calming. Magic or force of personality, she wasn’t sure, but it got her stomach to stop rolling. 

“We may not survive this,” Mother South said, her voice firm. “We may not stop the Beast Forever. But we must _try_.” 

She turned to Tip, bowing her head. “So, our Champion. Lead us.” 

Tip’s chin went up, and Dorothy thought of the angry child she’d freed, what felt like half a lifetime ago. Whatever Tip was now, a child he wasn’t. 

“Let’s go,” said the King, and led them out onto the barren field. 

Dorothy wondered how long it would take the Beast Forever to notice them; the answer was about thirty seconds. The massive shape didn’t move, but suddenly there was a gleam of red somewhere near the top of it, focusing on them. 

The air washed the same shade of red, bringing a feeling of nausea and the definite sensation of being _watched._ Dorothy gagged, struggling with the sudden desire to turn and run; it was only slightly comforting to see the others stiffening as well, their steps faltering. 

Then Tip pushed forward, hand on the dagger’s hilt. “We’re here for Oz,” he shouted, though the distance was far too great for him to be heard. “Leave now, or face _all_ of us!” 

There was a long pause...and then soft laughter echoed across the plain, the nasty sound of cruelty enjoying cruelty. The red spot and the red tint faded away, and so did the nausea. 

Dorothy couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though. 

They reached the city about an hour later. Its gates were open and its streets deserted, and it was there that they encountered their first human corpses. The bodies were more pathetic than frightening to Dorothy, huddled bony figures that seemed to have mummified rather than rotting. 

“I wonder if the shadow kills bacteria too?” she muttered to herself after crouching for a better look at one, the medic in her too curious to pass by. “Would that make everything here sterile?” 

“No one cares,” Morwen said brusquely, pulling Dorothy to her feet. “The dead have no answers, unless they’re witches. Come on.” 

Up close, or at least closer, the Beast Forever was grotesque, a distorted lump wrapped in what looked like a skin cloak; Dorothy eventually realized it was the Beast’s wings. It had a weird long head that really did remind her of a pterosaur, but the face - what they could see of it in the dim light - was unpleasantly, distortedly human. 

And it was _massive._ Dorothy wasn’t sure how the spire was supporting the thing’s weight. Nothing in her world came close, at least nothing that wasn’t aquatic; the only thing that she could think of that compared was the dragons on _Game of Thrones_. 

The red light - its eye - did not reappear when they halted near the palace on which the Beast perched, but Dorothy didn’t doubt the thing was aware of them. “So how are we going to do this?” she asked quietly, sounding a lot more confident than she felt. 

Tip pursed his lips, then looked around at them. “I say we attack now.” 

Mother South turned up a hand. “As our monarch commands...if everyone is ready?” 

_No,_ Dorothy thought, but there was absolutely no point in saying so. “I suggest,” Morwen said, drawling a bit, “that we use the tomb. Even without a roof it’s safer than standing under that lump.” 

Glinda sniffed. “I quite agree,” Mother South said. “And we may be able to tap the residual power there.” 

It wasn’t the most comfortable place, and they had to move a few chunks of roof out of the way to get enough space that wasn’t right next to the giant hole in the floor, but eventually Mother South pronounced herself satisfied. 

They formed a circle, linking hand to hand with Tip in the center, faces to their own directions. It felt like everything was moving too quickly, Dorothy wanted a minute to stop and catch her breath and organize her thoughts, but she knew better than to ask. On her left, Mother South’s hand was warm and firm in hers; on her right, Glinda’s cool fingers gripped her own lightly; across the way, just past Tip’s head, her eyes met Morwen’s lambent, ironic gaze. 

And Dorothy knew that however she felt about any of them, right now it didn’t matter. Even Glinda’s disdain was put away. To protect Oz, they had to be united. 

She didn’t have to close her eyes this time. Tip stood in the center, eyes pressed shut and dagger held in both hands, upright like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Around him, they lifted their clasped hands, and the sudden flow of magic from the other three called forth Dorothy’s own, only partially within her control. She sawit with doubled vision, the colored smokes thickening and throwing off sparks, and _pushed_ , opening herself as far as she could to let it stream forth. 

And the center of the circle burst into _light_. It was all colors at once, a scintillating cloud that drew them all in and gave them back a hundredfold. Their surroundings faded away; Dorothy could no longer sense the world around them, just the other three in the circle, the perfect balance of power and life, all spiraling in to the figure in the center. 

Tip shone even more brightly in her inner vision, glowing like the heart of a star, his outlines becoming indistinct until he was only a flame edged with silver. The magic was music, it was thunder, it was a roaring fountain, it was so much more than Dorothy could have thought possible; it was _glorious_. 

Somewhere outside of it all came a tide of red, poisonous and malevolent, but it was almost insignificant in comparison. The shape that was Tip lengthened, lifting brilliant limbs in defiance, and then sprang upwards like a meteor gone the wrong way, a streak of fire heading for the sky. 

The power followed him, and Dorothy felt herself trailing behind as the shooting star headed towards the vast distorted shape. She knew, just barely, that the four witches were still physically standing in the tomb, but their linked consciousnesses followed Tip, still pouring out their magic. 

The Beast Forever spread its wings and screamed, eyes burning a red that threatened to smother the witches’ power. Tip arrowed towards it, knife raised high - 

The battle was a dizzying clash of light and darkness to Dorothy’s perception. The difference in sizes was nearly lost as fire slashed shadow and shadow battered fire; sparks flew and drops of red spun away, and shrieking howls threatened to drown the music that swelled to block them out. 

Amidst it all Dorothy could feel the others, as close as if they were inside her skin - Glinda’s fine cool control, Morwen’s wildfire turned to one purpose - and beneath them Mother South, as steady as the earth beneath them and seemingly as old. A stray thought wondered how they perceived _her_ , but Dorothy’s attention was bound up in the magic. 

Which was finally running out. 

She had no idea how much time had passed since the battle’s beginning, but Dorothy could feel that the flow of power was starting to grow thin. No witch was infinite, and they were approaching their limits. 

Tip was still fighting, though whether he was winning or losing she could not tell. The draw of magic began to feel as if it were Dorothy’s very life, draining out of her and into Tip, and somewhere far away she remembered that this could kill them all. 

_This is more important._

_This is why I am here._

Dorothy knew she didn’t _want_ to die, and the thought of Leith, of _Lucas_ , tore her distant heart. But without their power, _her_ power, Oz would be ruined and the Beast Forever would reign. 

Somewhere, the light was growing. Somewhere, gold and gems warmed her shaking hands. Somewhere, Morwen was shouting something, fierce words flung up like birds of prey. 

Dorothy held on, and let go. 


	15. Chapter 15

_I should be dying._

The thought kept rising in Lucas’ mind, no matter how he concentrated on pursuit. He could feel the Beast Forever’s shadow like a weight across his shoulders, trying to press him down into the lifeless dirt, but for some reason it wasn’t working.

It wasn’t Leith’s doing, he knew that much. She still held his hand as they trekked across the dead landscape, but he could see that she was concentrating on the path they were taking, not on him. Her other hand usually rested on Toto’s back, and the dog never strayed further than a few feet.

It took Lucas an embarrassingly long time to realize that she was the reason Toto was still healthy; it was her magic, laid over the dog in protection. Of course, that immediately made him worry that Leith would overtax herself, but she showed no signs of fatigue as they walked on.

When it grew dark again, they stopped to rest and share Lucas’ food. He hadn’t packed with three in mind, exactly, but Leith didn’t eat much and Lucas had marched on short rations before.

And Leith had, it turned out, a pocketful of candy. She shared it out with solemn precision, and Lucas ate the slightly fuzzy humbugs with carefully hidden amusement and watched Toto take each one of his share delicately from Leith’s fingers.

There was nowhere even remotely comfortable to sleep, but Lucas settled them anyway, head pillowed on dead grass and Leith a warm lump curled up against his chest.

He left the lamp lit, grateful that he’d brought extra oil. Without the moons or stars, night in the Beast Forever’s shadow was truly dark. And while the light could be a lure to whatever might be lurking out there, Lucas couldn’t quite bear the idea of spending hours in utter blackness, asleep or awake.

He tried to comfort himself with the reminder that they had seen nothing living since they had entered the shadow, but it didn’t really work. Lucas held himself to a doze; the sight of Toto sitting upright and statue-still, ears cupped towards the forest around them, was reassuring.

It was on the edge of sleep somewhere in that dead night, the faint glow of the lantern leaking past his lids and Leith snuffling against his jacket, that Lucas noticed the warmth still sitting in the center of his chest. Dorothy’s blessing.

_Oh._

_Of course._

She was a healer, after all, and one of her first acts in Oz had been to heal _him_. There was no way she would allow him to be ill...even at this distance.

Lucas smiled.

* * *

As soon as the air lightened enough to see beyond the lantern’s light, Leith urged him to his feet, barely giving him time to hand out their meager breakfast before starting a brisk pace. Lucas didn’t argue; an uneasy feeling was growing in the back of his mind, like they were running out of time.

They cleared the forest in just an hour’s walking, and Emerald City rose up in the open ground beyond. There was no mistaking it; but Lucas hardly saw it, because above the city roiled a dark cloud laced with constant lightning, and even at this distance he could hear thunder and huge, terrifying screams.

Next to him Leith made a small, choked sound and clutched his hand tightly. On instinct, Lucas swung her up into his arms, still staring at the storm enveloping Emerald City’s tallest spires. The sight brought a weird, panicky feeling, and he had to brace his feet to keep them from carrying him back into the trees.

Beneath his chin, Leith said something in the witches’ tongue, one short sharp word, and Lucas felt Toto pressing against his leg.

Then the world streamed past them, too fast to catch, and stopped at chaos.

The sound alone was enough to send one mad, shrieks and explosions tearing at their ears. Light flickered and danced, and Lucas was diving into the meager safety of a roof-shadow before he even thought, Leith still clutched tight against him.

Black, oily smoke churned overhead, billowing and contracting instead of dispersing like ordinary smoke. Occasionally something pale flickered within it, but it was hard to tell between the bursts of lightning.

It made no sense to Lucas. Was Dorothy in that smoke somewhere, was Ozma? Were they fighting the Beast Forever with magic or with steel?

But Leith was squirming out of his grip, and he set her down before she could fall. Toto snarled up at the cloud, ears laid back, but Lucas could see his tail tucked tight against his haunches.

Leith grabbed Lucas’ hand again, tugging him away from the dubious shelter of the roof. Her lips moved, but Lucas couldn’t hear the word, or make it out in the constant flicker of light. Toto barked sharply and raced away around one corner, but seconds later he was back, clearly wanting them to follow.

It was a nightmare run, dodging debris and the occasional shrunken corpse - Lucas didn’t remember the city being in such bad shape, but he supposed the Beast Forever hadn’t been good for the architecture. Lucas kept expecting something terrible to rain down from the cloud onto their heads, worse than the spits of fire, but aside from a drop of something red that burned halfway through his jacket sleeve, nothing fell on them.

Toto didn’t lead them far, just to another ruin. Lucas didn’t have time to recognize it, because Toto dove through the door and started whimpering, and Lucas barely beat Leith there, sword halfway from its sheath.

What he saw had him forgetting the blade. _No -_

All four Cardinal Witches lay limp on the dusty floor, faces grey and eyes shut, looking close enough to death that Lucas felt panic rising in his throat. He skidded to his knees next to Dorothy, trying to lift her up, but her hands were linked with those of Glinda and Mother South, and wouldn’t release.

He ended up with her draped awkwardly across his knees, one hand testing her lips for the flutter of breath. It was there, but only just, and her skin was cold and clammy. “Dorothy. Dorothy, wake up!”

Toto was moving from one witch to another, nosing them worriedly; Leith crouched next to Mother South, patting the woman’s face. “Help!” she demanded, frowning at Lucas.

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t - I don’t know what to do.” Dorothy was so still, so very still; she was dying, they were all _dying_ , but what could they do to stop it? He pried at her fingers until he feared to break them, but they would not give way.

Leith sighed audibly and stood up, moving to the center of the witches’ circle. A point of her finger directed Toto to Lucas’ side, where the dog sat, panting nervously.

She raised her arms over her head, and Lucas sucked in a breath, because her eyes were wide, her hands shaking - she was _frightened_. “Wait, sweetheart, what are you - ”

Leith smacked her hands together, and Lucas lost his grip on Dorothy as the ground bucked underneath him. Light blasted out from Leith, washing out everything else, and Lucas braced one hand against the stone beneath him, groping for Dorothy with the other. His fingertips had just snagged cloth when the howling overhead rose to a screech that seemed to drill straight through his skull -

Silence fell like a massive stone, and for a moment Lucas wasn’t sure if he wasn’t just deaf, but then Toto’s whine made it to his ears. The wet nose in his face was less welcome, and Lucas raised a hand to push it away.

_Wait. When did I lie down?_

Everything was foggy when he opened his eyes, but after several blinks Lucas realized it was the dust hanging in the air, not his actual vision.

Someone coughed, and Lucas shot upright. _“Dorothy?”_

“Bleah.” Her voice was weak and choked, but _real_ , and Lucas had to blink again to clear his eyes as he scooped her up. Dorothy clung to him, or at least flopped one arm over his shoulder, and he squeezed his eyes shut again as a sob caught halfway up his throat.

Her hair was full of the same dust that hung in the air, but Lucas didn’t care, and buried his face in it, afraid to hold her as tightly as he wanted to. He could hear the others stirring, and Toto’s happy yip told him that Leith had to be all right...though he snuck a peek upwards just to be sure.

She was kneeling next to Mother South, her straight hair gone wild in an explosion of frizzy curls, looking shaken but very pleased with herself. Beyond her West was leaning on one elbow dizzily, while Glinda, flat on her back, stared at the sky and seemed to be muttering something under her breath. Lucas let out a breath of relief and turned his attention back to Dorothy.

She was laughing weakly, face pressed to his chest. “‘S not fair to feel this bad when I didn’ even drink,” she muttered, then tipped her head back to give him a grin. “Not even gonna ask what you’re doin’ here.”

“Wise of you,” Lucas said, and hugged her closer.

Footsteps crunching outside made them all look up in alarm; Mother South, who had only just sat up with Leith’s help, lifted a hand in which a weak flame flickered, and Lucas set Dorothy hastily down, rising and drawing his sword.

But the figure that appeared in the doorway was Ozma. Still in his male form, looking tired and bruised and just as dusty as the rest of them but grinning triumphantly, he strode over to Mother South and bowed, placing something black and cinder-like in her hand. “We did it!”

Mother South stared at the object, and Lucas saw tension run out of her like sand giving way before water. “We did,” she said softly.

“What’s that?” Dorothy asked muzzily, and Mother South held up the object. It looked like a chunk of burnt wood.

“This is the heart of the Beast Forever,” Mother South said. “Or what’s left of it.”

They all gazed at it, arrested. _That thing...that’s from the Beast Forever?_ It seemed far too small to have powered that vast monster.

Mother South’s mouth curved, and she closed her fist around the object. It powdered into black dust, sifting away and disappearing as her fingers opened again, and she slapped her palms together to get rid of the last of it. “Forever no more,” she said with utter satisfaction.

Lucas found himself blinking, and it wasn’t just from the dust. Nor was it entirely relief, he realized; the hazy air was brighter than it had been, and as he watched, a beam of sunlight made its way past the broken roof to spotlight the crown of Dorothy’s rumpled head.

_We won._

It was going to take some getting used to. But in the meantime…

Lucas sheathed his sword, dropped down next to Dorothy, and pulled her back into his arms, then held out a hand to Leith. The witchling grinned, and came over to snuggle into Dorothy’s lap.

The sudden addition of Toto nearly made them overbalance, but when everyone was settled Lucas looked up to meet Mother South’s thoughtful gaze.

He wasn’t about to challenge a Cardinal Witch, but he didn’t look away either. _We chose each other,_ he thought. _Make of that what you will._

As if she’d heard him, Mother South raised her brows, but the small smile she gave him was approving.

Lucas blinked in surprise, but then Dorothy was tugging gently on his nape, and he bent his head for her kiss, and nothing else mattered just then.


	16. Chapter 16

Life had returned to Emerald City, after a fashion.

Dorothy sat on a convenient rock and watched the bustle. People were swarming in and out of the city, past where she rested, but the landscape was still blank and dead; the witches’ power had been enough to take out the Beast Forever, but apparently not to heal the blight of its shadow.

Dorothy figured that, right now, it just wasn’t her problem.

All four of them were still frighteningly weak, though Dorothy herself didn’t feel actively sick; only Tip seemed to have come the ordeal without being drained, though he did sport a long cut on one cheek (and probably more beneath his clothes, to judge by the careful way he moved). It made sense to Dorothy; the power had been running _to_ him, after all.

Leith had slept nearly a day and then woken to eat more food than her body should have been able to hold, and was now back to her normal self. Dorothy took comfort in that. _She’s still just a kid, after all._

Now soldiers and citizens worked to tidy the city, and bury those struck down by the Beast Forever’s shadow. But given that the landscape was blighted as far as Dorothy could see - and beyond - she wasn’t sure there was much point. _This place is basically uninhabitable. And who knows when - or if - things will return to normal?_

She shivered a little at the thought of the blasted forest. Grass might grow back in a season, but those trees had been there for decades, if not centuries.

“May I join you?”

Dorothy looked up to see Mother South approaching, leaning on the shoulder of her golden tiger. Dorothy suppressed the automatic surge of alarm at the sight of a large predator running around loose, and nodded, dusting off the other half of her rock slab.

Mother South seated herself carefully. The tiger waited until she was settled, then lay down in front of her, rolling over and exposing its belly in a faintly ridiculous fashion.

Mother South toed off one sandal and began rubbing the tiger’s midsection with her bare foot. “How are you, my dear?”

Dorothy thought about the blond man she’d seen earlier, considered the contented wheeze coming out of the tiger, and moved her own toes out of reach...just in case. “Better today, thanks. It’s a lot like recovering from ‘flu.”

Mother South hummed. “We came very close to failure.”

They sat in silence for a bit. Dorothy knew she should be thinking about what to do next, but she was still too drained; it was hard to hold a thought in her head for more than a few minutes, and if not for Lucas’ rather worried habit of bringing her meals at the slightest provocation, Dorothy suspected she would be even more tired.

“When we are more recovered, I will find a new vessel for your magic,” Mother South said. “We had a bargain, after all.”

“Yeah. Um,” Dorothy said, not sure what to say. “I...do we have to stick to it?”

Mother South cocked her head. “You would stay?”

She sounded hopeful, and Dorothy blew out a breath. “...Maybe? I...need to think about it. And talk to some people.”

Part of her was screaming that she was _nuts_. Stay in this weird magical world where people tried to kill her on a regular basis? And what about Em and Henry and all her friends?

But - Lucas. And while he might choose to come with her back to Kansas, there was Leith and Toto, and Jane, and even Tip and Morwen and Mother South herself -

“Of course.” A warm hand closed gently over her own. “But we would be more than glad to have you, and not just because East’s post needs to be filled. Dorothy, Oz owes you much; we would be glad to make a place for you.”

Dorothy had to swallow. “I kind of do want to stay. But my aunt and uncle - ”

“There is room for them too,” Mother South said easily, and Dorothy blinked.

_Okay, that hadn’t occurred to me._

“There is time,” Mother South added, and let her go. “We have much to do when we recover as it is. The Cardinal Witches must rebalance, whether you choose to be one of our number or not; and Oz itself must heal.”

“Rebalance?” Dorothy asked. “You mentioned that before.”

Mother South nodded. “When I went into hiding, my power was withdrawn from Oz, and the Cardinal Witches became unbalanced as a consequence. West lost her hope, and North her selflessness; and you yourself experienced dear East’s cruelty where she should have been kind.”

Dorothy suppressed a shudder. The tiger was snoring, and Mother South slipped her sandal back on. “Even you were touched by it; did you not do some things that were unlike you?”

“This whole thing has been unlike - ” Dorothy began, but the last word stuck in her throat as memory crashed in.

_Fury and bitter betrayal, and sticky blood on her skin; dragging a near-unconscious man to two planks nailed hastily together, and binding him down, the rage spilling over until her own hands seemed to belong to someone else. She would be sick later, but just now it was only right to do this, to reduce him to a **thing** for what he’d done to her, to leave him behind with the shreds of her heart. _

_Oh._ She felt like being sick _now_. Dorothy bent over the ache in her middle. “That...that wasn’t really me?” she asked unsteadily.

A murmur washed over her, and the nausea eased. “Say, a distortion, rather.” Mother South’s tone did not condemn. “You inherited East’s powers, and with it, the imbalance.”

Dorothy straightened cautiously. “Were _you_ unbalanced?”

Mother South turned up one hand. “I was...withdrawn. Placed in a kind of sleep, to keep me safe and undetected by the Wizard. A choice I now regret, but as I said before, even witches cannot alter the past.”

Her mouth was tight, and Dorothy wondered suddenly if her hiding had been as voluntary as all that.

Dorothy let out a breath, trying to focus. “Well. I’ll see what, um.” She didn’t want to sound ungracious, but it _was_ a big decision.

Mother South nodded, and they were silent again. Tip came striding out onto the plain, still in his male form and trailed by two guards and a handful of workers; they couldn’t make out his words at this distance, but he was clearly giving instructions. Dorothy hadn’t seen him appear as Ozma since they’d won against the Beast Forever, and she had a suspicion that Tip meant to stick with his present body.

The monarch dismissed the workers and came over to where they sat, skirting the tiger carefully. “Mother South, Lady East,” he said formally, and Dorothy echoed Mother South’s nod. “I wanted to enquire…”

He hesitated, looking suddenly very young, and Mother South smiled. “Your Majesty?”

Tip grimaced. “Is there anything that can be done about the blight?”

He waved an arm at the landscape around them. The city’s workers were burying the corpses and cleaning up the streets, but it was obvious that if life was not brought back to the area Emerald City would have to be abandoned.

“I know you need time to recover,” Tip added quickly. “And certainly nothing needs to be done at once. But a decision should be made soon.”

Mother South smiled. “We have the problem in hand,” she said, which was news to Dorothy. _**What** we?_

Tip grinned back. “Excellent,” he said. “Oz’s resources, whatever’s left, are at your disposal should you need them.”

He bowed a fraction and started back into the city. Mother South watched him go with a satisfied expression.

“It is good,” she murmured, “to again be working with the ruling house of Oz.”

The tiger snorted, rolled over, and began licking one paw lazily. Dorothy pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged on the stone. “If I do give up the power...do you have someone in mind to take it?”

“There are several candidates,” Mother South said easily. “I will not mention names at this point.”

Dorothy considered that, and nodded. “That’s fair.”

A soft breeze was making its way across the plain, smelling very faintly of fresh air. It was unreasonably hopeful. Dorothy tilted her head back, closed her eyes against the sun, and let it breathe against her skin.

* * *

 

The horizon was just brightening as the Cardinal Witches and their monarch made their way out of Emerald City. In the twilight hush of earliest dawn, it was hard to perceive the blight that still lay on the land, but Dorothy knew it was still there; she had begun to actually _feel_ it, like a heaviness just under her skin. Whatever powers she had inherited from East were...evolving.

The dun robes they all wore rustled faintly, the only sound besides their footsteps. Leith’s hand was small in Dorothy’s, but her other one felt empty. This ceremony was forbidden to non-witches, and both Lucas and Toto had had to stay behind.

The light brightened slowly as they stepped beyond the city’s walls, and Dorothy was startled to see that they were not alone.

The witches of Oz were waiting.

They stood in two long curves, hands linked, stretching so far from the city that the far side of the circle they formed could scarcely be seen.

Mother South had instructed them earlier. Dorothy let Leith go and moved to take the hand of the nearest witch on her left, a short heavy woman who gave her the barest hint of a grin as they meshed fingers. On Dorothy’s right was Glinda; she didn’t even look at Dorothy, and Dorothy resisted the impulse to squeeze too tightly when they clasped hands.

Beyond Glinda was Morwen, hair spilling over her robe and her eyes bright. Mother South didn’t fill the gap yet; she stepped into the circle and guided both Tip and Leith to stand in front of her.

“We are gathered for the healing,” she said, her voice rolling out to the wide circle, and Dorothy felt her skin prickle as she realized that Mother South was speaking in the witches’ tongue. _And I can understand it._

_This is **freaky**._

“It is meet that we perform this service,” Mother South continued. “Our magic has been woven into the roots of Oz since the very beginning; it is past time that we took up our places once more, the heart and life of this our beloved land.”

A low hum was rising from the gathered witches. It was hypnotic; Dorothy felt her own throat begin to vibrate in harmony.

Mother South raised her hands. “As magic is a living thing, so it changes. These changes have brought us a new thing: a monarch who possesses power, a Queen who is also a King.” She placed her hands on Tip’s shoulders. “The magic has chosen.”

The hum deepened; apparently no one was going to argue.

Mother South let Tip go, and he stepped back to stand between Morwen and the witch on her right. Without prompting, Leith moved over to take his place in front of Mother South.

“Let the youngest of us bring life back to Oz,” Mother South said.

Dorothy stopped humming to swallow hard. This had sounded _terrifying_ when Mother South had explained it earlier; but according to her, Leith was the logical choice.

Mother South backed up to the circle, leaving Leith standing alone. The girl looked around, calm and solemn, and then raised both arms over her head, as if stretching.

The hum rose, pitching upwards to a full-throated cry from a thousand throats or more, and the sun tipped up over the edge of the world.

Leith spun around, arms out, and the light seemed to splash against her and scatter away. She ran a few steps, then jumped as if there were a puddle to play in.

And where her feet touched, green sprang forth.

Dorothy’s eyes were blurring, but somehow she could still see the small figure as Leith danced across the circle. The massed power of the witches was flowing through the circle - not draining away, as it had before, but spinning like a wheel, uniting them all. She was one in many, all of them concentrating on one goal.

Leith laughed out loud, twirling in delight, and verdant grass spread outwards, faster and faster, racing towards the horizon. She ran back and grabbed Tip’s hands, pulling him into the circle, and Dorothy sensed the distant forest coming back to life, leaves unfurling as if it were all spring in a moment.

They danced solemn and joyful, the young man and the little girl, and Oz was healed.  


	17. Chapter 17

It was a very ordinary day in Kansas, which was something of a relief.

The grass stirred by the wind of their passage swayed back to stillness, and Dorothy looked around nervously, but there was no one to see them arrive in the middle of an empty field.

Lucas looked around too, shoulders relaxing a trifle at the sight of the empty horizon, but his expression was still somewhat wary.

She didn’t blame him at _all_.

“Well. Lucas...welcome to Lucas.” Dorothy blew out a breath - the world-to-world travel was definitely draining - and stretched. “Not exactly a bustling metropolis, but here we are.”

Lucas wasn’t actually touching his new dagger, but one hand hovered near the hilt. “It’s very nice.”

She looked up at his drawn-in brows, and snickered. “Liar.”

Lucas’ lips quirked, and he glanced at her. “This is your town?”

Dorothy tilted a hand back and forth. “We’re still within the limits, but not really. I’ll be happy to show you downtown, but I’m not walking.”

She led him over to the barn, and Lucas pulled the big door open for her before she did more than lay a hand on it. Her truck was several weeks dustier than when she’d left it, but seemed untouched by anything larger than a mouse. _I hope the engine will start._

_...Does magic work on car batteries?_

Dorothy cut off the insane DieHard commercial her brain immediately tried to generate, and fished out her keys from her pocket.

Fifteen minutes later they were rolling down Lucas-the-town’s main drag, and Lucas-the-man was looking around with interest. Dorothy smothered a grin. She’d had to demonstrate the seatbelt, and then soothe him when any speed over about twelve miles per hour freaked him out.

But there was just enough traffic now to slow them down, and she found herself enjoying the way curiosity brightened his face. He asked no questions, but Dorothy pointed out a few landmarks, including the hospital.

“It’s busy,” he said as they left the town proper behind. “And there are so many machines.”

Dorothy shrugged. “Our magic is technology.”

The road unrolled through a familiar landscape - Lucas was probably finding it bare, but Dorothy knew every yard by heart - and yet she seemed to see it with a stranger’s eyes as well. Kansas was solid, familiar, comforting...and _dull_. Oz’s vivid color made home look like a washed-out painting, and something in Dorothy resented the change.

When she pulled up to the house, Uncle Henry was just coming out onto the porch with a basket of wet laundry ( _Sure we have a dryer, chica, but why spend the electricity when the wind will do it for free?_ ), and at the sight of the familiar figure Dorothy felt her throat swell with relief and joy mixed.

She barely remembered to take off her seatbelt before she was out of the truck and in Henry’s arms, and her heart cried _safe!_ even though she knew there was no such thing.

“We thought you’d be away longer,” Henry said at last, getting in one last hug. “Let me call your aunt. And who’s your friend?”

Dorothy glanced at Lucas, who had climbed carefully out of the truck and was waiting patiently. “It’s a long story. A _really_ long story.” Around her hands, just beyond sight, gold and gems were a ghostly weight.

“Then come tell it to us.” Keeping one arm around her shoulders, Henry held out his other hand to Lucas. “Henry Gale. Good to meet you.”

Watching the two men greet each other, Dorothy crossed mental fingers.

_Guess we’ll see what happens…_

* * *

 The sunset was beautiful, and Lucas sat on the porch steps to watch it, trying not to listen to the hum of voices inside.

Dorothy’s aunt was as charming as her uncle, if less demonstrative; she’d been polite, and kept her counsel as well as a witch, but Lucas could tell she was suspicious of him. He didn’t resent it. He was, after all, both dangerous and far more of a stranger than she could guess.

Still, Lucas had been given a seat in their main room and a glass of lemonade to drink, all the courtesies to a guest observed without stinting. He’d let his leg press against Dorothy’s as she took a deep breath and began her story, but her discomfort precluded actually taking her hand.

He’d sat through the initial explanations, and the disbelief, and the demonstration that had left Henry shocked into cursing in a tongue Lucas didn’t know, and Em oddly silent. But when the discussion had turned more personal, Lucas had excused himself, feeling too much the stranger for such a family talk.

He’d finished hanging up the laundry quite some time ago; now it snapped and rustled in the breeze that had come with evening, a very domestic sound. Lucas couldn’t quite remember when he’d begun to crave domesticity.

_But I’d lay odds it was in that farmhouse._

First a King’s man, then a witch’s consort, always a soldier; Lucas had centered his life around his service, never considering what it would be like to be an _equal_.

He wasn’t one, of course. Dorothy was a Cardinal Witch and likely to continue in the role; she possessed power an ordinary mortal couldn’t hope to touch.

_Yet she treats me like I matter._

That was the heart of it. A soldier is, in the end, _disposable;_ that was the nature of the job. And Lucas - _Roan_ \- had accepted that when he’d taken his oaths.

It was true that for a little while he’d thought he was more, to Glinda. But by the sun that had seared his skin while he hung helpless on that pole, Lucas knew it had been a lie.

Dorothy had pulled him down from it, fed and healed him, _named_ him. She thought he was worthy. And _Lucas,_ new man that he was, wanted to _be_ worthy.

 _I never thought about leaving Oz. But if it turns out she wants to stay here…_ It was a little frightening how easy the decision was.

_I will stay as well._

The screen door creaked behind him, and Lucas craned to look, then rose hastily to his feet as Dorothy’s aunt stepped out onto the porch. “Mistress Gale.”

“For Pete’s sake, call me Em.” She took one of the porch chairs, and at her wave Lucas sat back down.

She regarded him a long moment, and Lucas bore her scrutiny quietly. He knew what Dorothy was offering - they’d discussed it before she’d come home - but she’d admitted that she had no idea how her aunt and uncle would take her suggestion.

“A whole other world, huh?” Em said at last. “I’d think that crack on the head made her delusional, but the appearing-glove thing is pretty convincing.”

“It’s...just as bewildering from my side,” Lucas admitted, and Em laughed a little.

“I doubt that, but I won’t argue.” She rubbed the fingers of one hand with the other, as if to ease discomfort. “Dorothy’ll be out in a minute, but I wanted to apologize. It’s not polite to run a guest off.”

“It’s nothing,” Lucas said, a little taken aback. “It just seemed - private.”

“I suppose.” Em stretched her hand carefully and then laid them both in her lap. “What’s it like, Oz? Dorothy was a little confusin’.”

Lucas blinked. “It’s….” _Home,_ he started to say, but it wasn’t, hadn’t been since Dorothy had named him true. “Different.”

He had to smile at Em’s snort. “It’s - smaller, maybe? Not so, ah, muted.” He didn’t want to insult Kansas, but it was hard to compare this open, empty sky and endless fields of plain grass with the more complicated landscapes of Oz. “And we don’t have these cars, or the music boxes.”

“But you have magic.” Em said the last word as if it tasted peculiar.

“The witches do. Not ordinary folk.” Which had never seemed strange _before._

“Magic.” She shook her head. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Lucas felt his heart lift; Dorothy would be _delighted._ “I think you’ll like Oz.”

“Wait until you meet Leith,” Dorothy said through the screen door, and swung it open. “But it can wait until tomorrow.”

She held out a hand, and Lucas stood quickly to take it. The slide of her palm against his was a quiet comfort, familiarity in the strangeness of her world. “Come on, I’ll show you my room,” she said, and grinned.

And he followed.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting!

It would be...difficult, to think of the tyro as Mistress of the Eastern Wood. Morwen watched Dorothy introducing her aunt and uncle to the King, the girl’s face bright and the older couple looking bemused but pleased. The loss of her Cardinal sister was still an ache in Morwen’s chest, and it would be a long time before Dorothy could ascend to her skill and power.

 _It could be worse._ The mantle could have gone to one of Glinda’s pets, after all.

And, deep down, Morwen had to admit to liking Dorothy’s grit.

“She’ll do,” she said grudgingly to Mother South, who was the only other person in the palace’s throne room - besides the Monarch - who got a chair.

“I think so,” Mother South agreed. “And she’ll hone her powers the faster if she insists on going back and forth between worlds.”

“Hmph.” Morwen watched the gold and gems flash on Dorothy’s hand as she gestured, and soothed the pang with the reminder that at least all of East’s stored spells had gone to Ozma.

_Tip. The King. The bloody tomato. As long as the kid handles the job…_

Morwen leaned a shoulder against the wall - she’d never gone in for formality and there was no reason to start now - and reflected on the recent changes. With the defeat of the Beast Forever and Oz’s restoration, witches were being hailed as heroes everywhere, which was a welcome change after the Wizard’s persecution. Mother South had spent a week at Chalcedon healing the damaged witchlings; her subsequent interview with Glinda had been private, but the Witch of the North had sulked for three days afterwards, and Morwen had enjoyed every minute.

“Are you still planning on naming Glinda your successor?” she asked, her tone innocent.

The glance Mother South gave her was tolerant. “I have better candidates.”

Morwen looked away, her next question sticking in her throat. Mother South patted her arm.

“No one can take up my powers unwillingly,” she said softly. “If you still don’t want the responsibility when I am ready to lay it down, we will find another.”

Morwen turned back in time to see her smirk. “It will not be soon, in any case,” Mother South added.

Morwen snickered. She let her knees go loose and sat down on the floor next to the chair. Tip glanced over at the movement and a quick grin flickered across his face before he turned back to Dorothy’s relations.

Across the room, Dorothy’s faithful hound was waiting for her, solemnly playing some kind of string game with the little witchling by his side. _Her_ faithful hound was, meanwhile, scratching his ear, his collar jingling faintly. They made a ridiculous picture, but Morwen couldn’t fault Leith’s choices. Or Dorothy’s taste, for that matter.

Magic - and life - was change, but not necessarily for the worse. The Wizard was gone and Mother South returned, and that, Morwen thought, was enough for the moment.

She turned up one palm and conjured a bit of fire to dance there, just for the fun of it. Then she leaned her head against her Mother’s knee, and let the magic play.


End file.
